


Undertow

by silentdescant



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Community: bandombigbang, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-27
Updated: 2010-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:12:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank lost his ship, his crew, and his best friend in one violent storm. When he washes up on an island, he has to learn how start living again. Time passes, and he thinks he's settled down and moved on, but then he rescues a woman from the sea and in caring for her, realizes he hasn't fully recovered from his own shipwreck. Frank quickly comes to depend on her and though he starts to live again, he doesn't want to live without her. Vaguely-historical AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Undertow [part 1a]

**Author's Note:**

> [fanart](http://silentdescant.livejournal.com/372469.html) by cool_rain_kiss and kidsxheroes  
> [fanmix](http://silentdescant.livejournal.com/372150.html) by somethinguncool
> 
> for bandombigbang 2010, wave two

_12 November – Nearing port, storm fast on our tail. Skies are depressingly dark to the West, even at midday. Doubt we will reach land before it catches us tonight._

"Get up, get up!"

"Captain!"

"Look out!"

Frank couldn't really hear over the sharp crackle of thunder. The thudding waves crashing against the hull only compounded and echoed in his head, and paired with the thick patter of rain on the deck, it was almost impossible to distinguish any sounds but that of water.

He looked around frantically, but the deck was largely empty. Cortez was holding tight to the mast, nearly thrown off his feet with each rock of the ship. Frank called to him.

"Cap'n!" Cortez shouted back, a low murmur beneath the cacophony of the storm. Frank let go of the rope keeping him upright and let himself fall. He slipped down the short stairs in a rush of water and stumbled to his feet again, grabbing for the railing.

When he was close enough, Cortez reached for him, stretching out to keep a good hold on the sturdy mast. His slippery fingers closed tightly around Frank's wrist and he yanked Frank close. Frank wound his arm in one of the ropes and fisted his free hand in Cortez's shirt.

"She's not gonna hold, Cap'n," Cortez shouted. "They're already taking a beating below deck; the water's comin' in too strong!"

Frank twisted around to look at the bow of the ship. As he watched, a gigantic wave curved over and smashed into the starboard side of the ship, nearly pulling the bow underwater. Cortez fell against him and Frank's feet slipped out from under him, until he was hanging by his left arm, still caught up in the ropes.

"Frank!" Cortez screamed. He yanked Frank up by his shirt and they slumped against the mast together. "She's not gonna survive this, mate."

"I know," Frank admitted quietly, then repeated himself so Cortez could hear. They'd already lost a handful of their crew, thrown overboard by the violent storm. "We have to get the men off."

At that moment, they heard a shout from below deck. "She's going down!"

Five guys clambered up and spread out across the ship, grabbing for anything that could keep them steady. Frank looked around at their terrified, determined faces. None of them wanted to give up, he knew that with every ounce of his soul. Pencey was their ship, their _home_.

"Lifeboat! We gotta get off!" Frank found himself screaming. The ship was listing badly and Frank's left hand was going numb. His sigh was waterlogged and he nearly choked on it.

His crew scrambled around, attempting and failing at organization, and tried to overturn the rowboat. Frank tugged at the ropes around his arm and worked to free himself from the tangle, but his fingers were cold and numb, and his sodden sleeve was caught in a knot. Cortez noticed him struggling and covered Frank's hands with his own, somehow blessedly warm.

"Hold still," he said loudly, and Frank braced himself against the sturdy mast. Cortez kept talking while he untangled the ropes. "Almost got it, Cap'n. Don't fall. Ready?"

Frank nodded and quickly extracted his arm from the knotted rope. He shook it, trying to regain feeling in his fingers, but he was too cold and wet to even feel the pins and needles. Cortez patted him on the shoulder and went to help the rest of the crew.

Frank turned towards the cabin. It seemed such a long way off, across the whole deck, and with the way the ship was tossing, he wasn't sure he could make it in one piece. Twisting the ring around his middle finger, he quickly listed the things he needed: Captain's Log, book of maps, his father's pocket watch. Frank took a step and immediately slipped sideways.

He kept falling until he crashed painfully into the side railing, and water sloshed over it as soon as he hit. When it finally dissipated, Frank was left coughing and spluttering, and lying in several inches of water. His shoulder smarted from banging into the wood, but he hauled himself to his feet and made his way across the deck, clenching numb fingers around the top of the rail.

He stared determinedly through the sheets of rain and crashing waves at the door to his quarters. The glass in the windows was broken, and there was water leaking from a crack in the door. Everything inside was probably a dead loss. The ship listed again, bow dipping low enough to sweep beneath the surface of the water, and Frank was nearly thrown off his feet again. He needed to see. He climbed up the smooth deck and leaped for the door.

As soon as the latch turned, the door swung Frank outward and a torrent of water streamed out around his knees. His clothes and books swept past him, and Frank fought his way against the current, wading inside.

"Captain!" came a shout from behind him. "The boat!"

His cabin was a depressing sight. The shelves were empty and the wood of the outer wall was splintering. All the windows were broken and rain streamed in unhindered. The pocket watch wasn't hanging on the hook by Frank's bunk, and it was pointless to search for it. None of the books could survive this much water, either. Frank turned around, bracing himself on the doorframe, and looked for his crew.

Cortez was shouting orders to the men, and Frank finally registered the splintered, broken pieces of the rowboat.

"Cortez!" he screamed. It took Cortez a moment to place the sound and search for him.

"Captain, there's nothing left," he shouted in reply. Frank let go of the doorframe and stumbled towards them. "The lower deck is completely underwater," he continued.

Adams looked at him despairingly. "What do we do, Captain?"

Frank shook his head. "We have to bail. There's nothing left here."

Cortez reached for Frank and held him close. They swayed together as the ship rocked beneath their feet. "We can't survive this," he muttered harshly into Frank's ear.

"We can't survive staying on the ship," Frank muttered back, just as urgently. "She's going down fast. Get the men off while we still can."

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw a familiar silver gleam skidding across the floor. He wrenched out of Cortez's grasp and dove after it. Frank landed on his side, and his shoulder throbbed angrily at the abuse, but he ignored the pain and reached for the pocket watch, still sliding through the water.

"FRANK!" Cortez screamed, sounding absolutely panicked.

Frank's fingers closed around the thin chain just as a wall of water crashed down on top of him. Frank was flattened on his stomach against the deck, all the air pushed from his lungs, and then ripped violently away from the solid floor. His arms felt as if they were being torn from their sockets; the wave spun him head over heels and flung him against the mast.

Frank curled automatically around it, even winded as he was, and wove his hands into the ropes again so the water couldn't pull him away. He opened his mouth expecting a rush of water, but the crushing wave was gone and Frank felt air on his cheek. He tossed his head to the side, shaking his hair from his face, and retched up the saltwater he'd swallowed in the initial torrent.

The pocket watch thudded gently against Frank's collarbone, caught between his body and the mast. He tightened his fist around the chain. He pressed his cheek to the wet column of wood and looked around for Cortez and the others. Adams was the only person he could see.

Frank quickly disentangled himself from the ropes and made his way over to him. He found Cortez huddled against the side of the ship, partially shielded from an incoming wave.

"Cortez!" Frank shouted. "Cortez! Matt!"

"Frank, come on, we have to get off!" Cortez extended a hand to Frank and tugged him in. "We're not gonna make it, Captain."

"We gotta try. Better luck off the ship than on," Frank replied, more for Adams' sake than his or Cortez's. Frank didn't know where the other men had gone, but by the look on poor Adams' face, he suspected it hadn't been pretty. He looked back at Cortez and said, quietly, "Stay with him."

"Don't you dare give me that 'going down with the ship' bullshit, Frank Iero," Cortez replied warningly.

"No," Frank cried. "No, fuck no." He reached out and grabbed Adams by the collar, reeling him into their little huddle. "We gotta stick together."

"We gotta get off the ship," Cortez added. "It's about to capsize; she's taking a real beating."

"That last nearly did her in," Adams said nervously. "What do we do, Captain?"

Frank looked around wildly, but visibility was down to a few feet, and there was nothing to orient himself with. "We were nearing land last time I checked the maps. Should be close now, if the storm is still pushing us. If we can keep ourselves afloat, I think we can make it."

"Frank," Cortez murmured. Frank felt his hot breath against the side of his neck. "The water's rough out there."

"I know," Frank replied, twisting his hands in both men's shirts to keep them close. "But it's our only chance. Find something to keep you above water and jump."

Adams nodded and Frank let him go. The young man was determined, yet obviously scared out of his mind, and Frank felt a sharp pang of regret, knowing that he probably just sent Adams to his death. He and Cortez watched as Adams found a plank of wood from the rowboat and leaped over the side of the ship. Cortez leaned up to see over the rail.

"There's nothing else to do," he said. "Don't stay here, Frank; you fucking follow me over."

"Only chance. Yeah. Go."

Cortez scrambled for another piece of the rowboat, and just as he was about to throw himself overboard, he gave Frank a hard, calm look. "Come on, Captain."

Frank pushed himself away from the rail and looked around for something to keep him afloat. A wave thudded against the hull, quickly followed by a loud crash of thunder, and the wood vibrated beneath their feet. There was a sickening crack, loud enough to echo above the storm, and Frank was thrown to the ground again.

He was disoriented for a moment, because the mast was swaying in a different direction than he could feel his own body moving. As soon as he realized what was happening, Frank jerked around and tried to find his friend.

"Matt! _Matt_!" he screamed. He could hear the groaning of the splintered wood as it fell, the deafening rumble of the ropes and canvas crashing down to the deck.

Another wave followed and the water didn't disappear; the ship was sinking too low. The deck was flooded with almost two feet of foaming saltwater, and Frank could barely force his limbs through it.

Cortez was partially caught beneath one of the sails. Frank could see his muscles bunching as he pushed against the heavy, waterlogged fabric and tried to free himself.

"Matt! I'm coming!" he shouted, but Cortez didn't hear him.

This close to the waterline, the waves were coming quickly and relentlessly. Something snapped and slammed into Frank's back, and he fell face-first into the water. The water rolled over him, spinning him until he wasn't sure which way was up, and Frank flailed his arms wildly for something to hold onto.

When he surfaced with a desperate gasp for air, he found a long piece of the mast, twice his height and nearly as big around as Frank himself. Frank wrapped both arms around it and clung on tightly as the water tossed it about like a cork. Across the deck, he saw Cortez's hand splashing at the surface of the water.

" _Matthew_!" Frank cried. He let go of the mast with one hand, but his other, the one still clutching the chain of the pocket watch, was once again tangled in a mass of knotted ropes, and he couldn't pull it free.

The water rolled him underwater and the wood held him there, and Frank couldn't fight to the surface no matter how hard he struggled. He could feel the currents of the waves tugging him in five different directions at once, and then there was a sudden lurch that nearly made him sick. Gravity failed him and Frank kicked for the surface, but it wasn't where he thought it was. The world felt tipped on its axis, and Frank, caught in his mast, was flipped and thrown around underwater. He was about to lose consciousness.

Finally, the water turned him upright again, and the mast popped up, breaking the surface of the water. Frank sucked in a huge breath that was mostly full of clean rainwater, and when he looked over his shoulder at his ship, he couldn't find it.

She'd finally capsized, he eventually realized. Waves were still breaking against the hull, but she was sinking fast now. Frank hoped the piece of the mast that had him caught was no longer connected to the rest of the ship. There was nothing he could do if he was pulled underwater now.

Planks and boards from the broken hull knocked against each other around him, along with other debris from the ship. The storm tossed them all together, and Frank felt extremely exposed. He was just one small man in a raging sea of violent waves and dangerous wreckage.

It wasn't long before one of the planks crashed against the mast he clung to, pinning him. He screamed, unheard by anything living, and when the wood knocked the back of his head, he welcomed the blackness.

***

When Frank next awoke, it was to a mouthful of water. He thrashed against the ropes, kicking his way to the surface, and gasped for air when he finally broke through. The seas had calmed, but the rain was still brutal, pounding down on his head and splashing up into his face. Frank could see the dark shapes of other large pieces of debris floating around him, bobbing in the water menacingly.

He didn't fight to free himself from the log. If nothing else, it kept him somewhat afloat while he was unconscious. Frank twisted around as much as he could, trying to orient himself, but the clouds were still thick and covering the entire sky, and he was lost. The horizon was black, and he couldn't tell where the clouds ended and the sea began.

The mast rolled him underwater again and Frank automatically closed his mouth on a shout. Saltwater still filled his nostrils and burned his open eyes, and he tried to pull away from the ropes. His sleeves were knotted tight in them, and the freezing saltwater was only hardening the knots. Frank beat his fists against the wood, but of course it didn't help.

Finally, when black spots were encroaching on the edges of Frank's vision, a current of water took hold of him and started to turn him upright. Frank's lungs were burning for air; he couldn't even summon the energy to do more than suck in large gulps of it as soon as he broke the surface.

Frank hung limp in the ropes for several minutes, letting his head loll against the wood, and tried to catch his breath without swallowing too much seawater, or the rainwater that dripped off his forehead. When he could eventually force his muscles to move, he kicked out at the water, splashing loudly enough to be heard over the drone of the rain, and plastered himself to the side of the mast. He hoped it would be easier to stay balanced.

Exhausted, Frank gave in to the tempting cry of sleep.

***

The next time he came to, the rain had stopped, but the waves were inexplicably more forceful. He was dunked underwater again, and when he came up spluttering, Frank realized why. In the darkness, he saw the faint outline of land.

From what he remembered of the maps and their heading before the storm hit, Frank guessed that he'd been drifting west. He didn't remember any islands near the large ports, though, and what he could see didn't look like mainland. The storm must have pushed him south along the coast, or maybe north, he wasn't sure.

There wasn't anything he could do to fight the current that was taking him towards land, no way for him to direct himself, so Frank just clung to the ropes and held on tight whenever the waves threw him into the water.

As he got closer to the island, he saw what was making the waves splash so much. The white sand that was nearly glowing in the darkness was cut off from the water by a line of large, craggy black rocks. They guarded the beach like battlements and the white foam from the waves only accentuated how unforgiving the sharp rocks would be when Frank inevitably hit them.

He shivered and clung to the piece of debris that held him, mentally preparing himself. The water tossed him violently as he neared the rocks, and it was a miracle he didn't bash his head against them.

The rest of his body wasn't so lucky; a wave crashed over him, pushing him well under, and a sharp rock gouged his thigh. Blood billowed out from the wound, staining the water. The salt immediately felt like fire in the torn flesh, and Frank opened his mouth to scream. He could taste his own diluted blood in the water that poured into his mouth. His hands jerked in their bonds, but as much as he struggled, he couldn't relieve any of the pain.

He finally came up, coughing water, and the mast caught on one of the outcroppings and held fast. The waves slammed against Frank's back, pressing him flat against the black rock and dousing him in foamy saltwater once again. He couldn't move, and there was nothing he could do to avoid the thrashing. The water pushed the log up farther on the rock, until most of the waves only hit Frank up to his waist.

He was finally able to catch his breath, gritting his teeth whenever the brackish water slammed into his wound. His pants were ripped to shreds, and his shirt was hanging off his shoulders, also torn along his back, and several of the buttons had come loose. The destroyed fabric clung to his skin, plastered to him with the water, and sticky around his thigh. The continuous torrent of water kept washing away the blood, but Frank could feel the difference in the way the fabric stuck to him.

Frank quickly lost track of time; he wasn't sure how long he was trapped on that rock with his hands bound to the mast and his leg stinging with fiery pain. The highest waves were lapping at his feet, occasionally splashing up to his knees—the tide was going out. He didn't know how long his luck would last, though, and when he realized this was his chance, Frank turned his attention to the ropes around his forearms.

The knots were hardening, solidifying in the salty water, especially now that they were starting to dry out. The sleeves of his shirt had caught in the tangle, and Frank couldn't rip the sturdy fabric free. A thinner mess of rope had wrapped around his right forearm, up to his elbow, and he could no longer feel the fingers of that hand.

He used his left hand work apart one of the knots. Frank felt so satisfied to have himself partially free that he had to flop over on his back and rest. He was exhausted. His right hand, he noticed, was still clenching tight around the chain of his pocket watch. He couldn't even force his fingers to move and release it.

The blood soaking through his pants had turned sluggish and thick, and his entire leg ached. He took a deep breath and slowly, carefully peeled the ropes away from his arm. He was almost thankful that he'd been caught so tight; it was the only way he'd survived long enough to reach this island. Finally, the knot around his wrist loosened enough for Frank to yank his hand through the tight loop.

Blood rushed back into his fingertips and they stung and tingled painfully. He let go of the pocket watch automatically and his left hand was there to catch it. He looped the chain around his neck and shivered when the cold metal watch dropped and thudded against his breastbone.

His clothes were getting clammy in the cold night air, too. Frank looked up at the crest of the rock he was lying on. It seemed like such a long way to climb. But he knew that white sand lay just beyond it, and he had to get there before the chasing tide caught up with him and pulled him back into the ocean.

Frank reached up with his left hand and found a handhold that didn't slice his palm open. His right hand was still mostly useless, as was his left leg, so hoisting himself up to the next outcropping was an agonizing struggle. The next two handholds were just as difficult, and Frank had to stop and rest for a moment before continuing.

His head was pounding, and beneath the ache of exhaustion, Frank recognized the shaky, weak feeling in his body as a sign that he wasn't dealing well with the blood loss and the cold. He determinedly reached for the next ledge of the rock, and when he pulled himself up, he was shocked to find that he'd reached the top of the wall.

The wind battered him from multiple directions, now that his torso was above the rock's protection, but Frank could see the white beach and the dark abyss of a forest beyond it, and to the left, he found that the rocks eventually tapered off and left the shore calm.

The sky was tinged with grey, and there were a few stars visible above the trees. The heavy clouds were finally dissipating, and Frank suspected morning wasn't long off. It took long, tedious minutes to drag his injured leg over the rock, and another several to find a safe path down to the sand. Frank eventually just let himself fall; it was painful and he scraped arms and legs wherever his clothes were torn, but he was down, collapsing face-first into the fine sand in a surprisingly short time.

Frank had the presence of mind to peel away the tatters of fabric from his wound, to give himself a fighting chance against infection. The blood had already dried in some places, and it hurt to rip the threads from wherever they were glued to his flesh. He fell backwards onto the sand again, clutching his thigh, and screamed. The rock had punctured his leg deeply, and he felt sick to look at the ripped skin, the gouged, red muscle beneath it.

The pain finally ebbed again, retreating into the back of his mind, and Frank took several deep breaths. The sky had lightened more, and he could clearly make out the outline of the trees. He tried to remember which direction the calm beach had been. He would head in that direction.

Once he could bring himself to move.

Frank shifted his leg, turned his body so that he wouldn't get too much sand in the wound, and closed his eyes. In the morning, he would stand up and start walking. In the morning.

***

When Frank woke up, the sun was bright and beating down on his shoulders. His clothes were still wet and gritty with sand, but his hair had dried, fluffy and tangled from the salt water, and the wind was blowing it against his eyelids. Frank scrubbed at his face, tucking his hair behind his ears, and opened his eyes.

Though the sun was hot on his exposed skin, everywhere his clothes touched his body, Frank was cold. He sat up and hugged himself tightly. The wind pulled at his clothes, slapping the torn edges against him. He needed to move.

It took considerable effort to push himself to his feet, especially using only the soft sand for balance. He couldn't bring himself to look down at his leg, but he brushed his hand over the edges of the wound. The blood felt mostly dried. Maybe once his shirt dried completely and he could shake the dirt and sand out of it, he could use it as a bandage. He couldn't imagine packing sand into his flesh with the fabric as it was, wet and cold. It was a sure way to get the wound infected, probably bad enough to kill him.

Frank turned to the left. From this vantage point, he couldn't see very far along the beach, but he thought this was the way he'd decided to go. He took a few staggering steps forward. It was hard to balance on the sand, and there was nothing to hold onto.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. The horizon looked hazy. He just needed to keep walking.

***

What felt like hours later, Frank saw what appeared to be a house in the distance, set back on firmer land, close to the tree line. He felt shaky, though; he hadn't had any food or fresh water in God knew how long, and the harsh sun and biting cold were competing for dominance in their game of torture. He suspected it was just a mirage, but he aimed for it anyway.

As he neared it, the house became clearer. He eventually got close enough to see a man on a ladder outside. The house was small, and there was a hole in the roof. The man was bundled up in a sweater and thick trousers, and a tight knit cap over his hair. His back was to Frank, and he was working on fixing the roof.

Frank took several quick steps closer and fell to his knees. The image before him seemed too good to be true.

"Help," he said. His voice was rough from disuse, ragged from swallowing so much salt water and coughing it up. "Help me," he added. It sounded quiet to his own ears.

Frank fell forward onto his hands and dragged himself forward a little more. He clutched at the sand, feeling it sift between his fingers. "Help me!" he shouted. It left him breathless, and Frank collapsed to the ground, gasping for a full breath of air.

In his blurry periphery, he saw the man on the ladder turn around. There was an indecipherable sound, and the man finally came to the ground. He rushed toward Frank, and Frank closed his eyes.

***

Frank next came to when the man was laying him down on a low cot. Frank's eyes fluttered open; he was inside the small house, and there was sunlight streaming in through the ragged hole in the roof. There was also a brick fireplace, and the man pushed the cot towards it, jostling Frank a little when it jerked to a stop.

"Are you awake? Are you okay, mister?" the man asked quickly, when he'd noticed Frank's eyes were open. "What's your name?"

"Iero," Frank replied. "Frank. Captain. The storm…"

"Shh, shh, shh," the man replied, pressing his palm to Frank's forehead. "You'll be okay, Frank. Let me see to your leg. Don't try to talk now."

Frank kept his eyes open while the man peeled off what was left of Frank's trousers, lifting them carefully away from the deep cut on his thigh. He even managed to stay upright as his shirt was pulled over his head. The man laid him back down on the cot with the gentle command to rest, and then he got to his feet and disappeared. Frank drifted into an exhausted sleep before the man returned.

***

He awoke naked beneath a knitted blanket, and a fire was blazing to his left. Frank turned his head to see it. There was a brick fireplace, which jogged his memory slightly. His pocket watch was resting on its coiled chain on the floor beside the cot, and Frank reached out from under the blanket to pick it up. The metal was warm to the touch. He lifted his head a few inches and looped the chain around his neck again.

When he shifted beneath the blanket, Frank felt the rough edges of a bandage around his injured thigh. Memories of the man carrying him inside and laying him down flooded back and Frank looked around for him wildly.

"Hello?" The house wasn't all that big, and Frank could see that he was alone. He pushed himself up to his elbows. "Hello?" he asked again, in a louder voice.

There was a clatter outside, and a moment later, the blonde, red-cheeked man from before burst in through the door.

"You're awake!" he said triumphantly. He yanked off his work gloves and knitted hat, and moved to kneel by Frank's cot.

"Who are you? Where am I?" Frank asked nervously. He couldn't help but flinch away from the man's touch.

"My name is Robert Bryar. Bob. You're in my house," Robert—Bob—replied gently. "You should drink something; you're dehydrated."

A tin cup of water appeared out of nowhere and Bob held it up to Frank's lips, urging him to drink. Frank obediently tilted his head back and he lifted his own hand to Bob's wrist, to steady the cup. When the fresh, clean water touched his tongue, Frank realized how thirsty he really was. He gulped down the water, swallowing quickly, and Bob didn't take away the cup until it was empty.

Frank let out a breath and gasped for air when he finished. Bob set the cup down and pressed the back of his hand to Frank's forehead.

"I think you still have a fever. How do you feel?"

"Better," Frank answered truthfully. "Thank you."

Bob sat back on his heels, his hands in his lap. "Frank. What happened?"

Frank closed his eyes. He could still feel the comforting heat on his eyelids, flickering warmth radiating from the fire. He lifted the blanket up to his shoulders. "My ship was damaged in the storm," he began cautiously. "We were taking on water, and the hull was splintering. The waves were too much for her.

"I don't know how long it took to reach the shore. A day? Were there any other survivors?" Frank hesitated. "Were there other bodies?"

"I haven't seen anything," Bob answered apologetically. "At least, not on my beach. Where did you wash up? You walked here, right?"

Frank sighed sadly and eased himself back down to the thin pillow. Staring at the ceiling, he said, "There were rocks covering the shore, and white sand beyond them. Trees farther back. The rocks were tall, and sharp, and that's how I cut my leg. I climbed over and walked here, along the beach."

Bob looked shocked at Frank's answer. "Tall, black rocks?" he asked, and Frank nodded. "That's halfway across the island, to the east."

"The others would probably wash up there," Frank mused. "Maybe they already have. You have to take me there."

"No, Frank—No." He reached up and felt Frank's forehead again. "You're still feverish, and you're hurt and dehydrated, and you're exhausted—walking back there would only—"

"I have to know," Frank interjected passionately. "They're my crew, and I sent them to their deaths. If there's even a chance one of them survived… I have to know."

" _No_ , Frank," Bob replied, more forcefully. "I can't let you injure yourself further."

Frank reached out and grabbed a handful of Bob's heavy jacket. He used it to pull himself upright again, and pointedly ignored the rush of dizziness that made him sway a little. "You don't understand," Frank said slowly. "I'm the _captain_. Those men were my responsibility. They trusted me."

"There's nothing you can do for them," Bob whispered. "You can't even take care of yourself right now. Just rest, please, and heal."

Frank sighed and Bob lowered him back down. Frank grudgingly admitted to himself that he was grateful for Bob's strong, gentle hands and his warm blankets. Moving made him dizzy again, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

"If you promise not to move from this bed," Bob murmured, his voice close to Frank's ear, "then I'll go out to that beach and search."

Frank's eyes flew open. Bob's hair was hanging over his forehead, and his blue eyes were sad, apologetic. "You _must_ stay here. I'll go for you."

"Yes, please," Frank whispered back. "I shan't move, I promise."

"I'll let you know of anything I find," Bob assured him. "Are you hungry?" Frank shook his head; he still felt queasy from being storm-tossed and feverish. Bob merely shrugged and said that he'd make something in case Frank got hungry later.

He gave Frank another cupful of water and held it until Frank drained the entire thing, and then made him a plate of crackers and cheese. He put a large jug of water on the floor beside the cot, as well as the tin cup. Then he tucked the blanket around Frank's shoulders and brushed his hair off his forehead affectionately.

"I'll stay out there a few hours, then come back and check on you," Bob said. "It might rain tonight, but the roof should hold, this time."

Frank followed Bob's gaze up to the newly patched hole, and he smiled. "Thank you," he said.

"I hope I find them," Bob replied.

Frank watched Bob bundle up in his coat and hat, foregoing the gloves, and only closed his eyes again when Bob's footsteps had gotten too far away to hear.

***

Frank was back in the ocean, with the water tugging at his legs. His left arm was pinned to the mast, ropes tight around his wrist and in his clenched fist, and he stretched his body out as far as he could, reaching for Matt's hand.

Frank could see his face just beneath the surface. Matt had his eyes open, and he was watching Frank. His eyes were pleading. His hand slapped the rippled surface of the water frantically, aiming for Frank's hand and missing.

Frank watched him struggle against the heavy canvas that held him under. He yanked at his arm, but the ropes held him steady. Matt strained, opening his mouth to release a stream of air bubbles, and his fingertips skimmed Frank's palm. Frank felt the quick, fleeting press of warmth even through the bone-chillingly cold seawater and freezing wind and rain.

Matt's hand slipped out of Frank's grasp, away, and fell beneath the water. Frank shouted for him, but Matt's eyes were closed, and of course he couldn't hear through the water. Frank stretched himself enough that his arm felt like it was being wrenched from its socket, but he ignored the pain. He clawed at the water. Matt was just under the surface. His hand floated there, just out of Frank's reach.

"Matt!" Frank screamed. " _Matthew_!"

Frank kept splashing at the water, and his face was wet even though it was no longer raining. Tears soaked the collar of his shirt, and it felt warm, different from the cold that encased his legs.

As Frank stared, Matt opened his eyes again. The skin surrounding his eyes was tinged blue with the freezing cold, as were his lips, and his eyes were cloudy and bloodshot. His dark hair wafted in front of his face and Frank screamed for him again.

"Matthew! No!" he cried, still jerking against his bonds. "No, please!"

Matt moved his hand so that it was just beneath Frank's in the water, and every time Frank stretched to touch him, Matt pulled his hand back, keeping at least an inch of clear water between them.

He was teasing Frank.

He was smiling, but it didn't look natural. His blue lips were stretched tight over his teeth; it was more of a grimace than a smile. But he stared at Frank and taunted him by getting closer, closer, closer, and then yanking himself away.

"Stop this! Stop!" Frank screamed. A sudden wave appeared out of nowhere and crashed over Frank's head. He shook water out of his eyes and grabbed for Matt again. He didn't want him to be washed away by the current. But Matt was floating away, his hands skimming the surface but his face underwater, and Frank couldn't reach. He watched the sea carry him farther and farther away.

" _Matthew_!" Frank cried.

"What is it? What's wrong? Frank?" came a voice Frank didn't recognize, and there were hands on his arms. Untangling him? He could move again. His hair stuck to his forehead and Frank felt the wetness on his cheeks—that was real. He could feel it. It must have been real.

Frank opened his eyes. There was a fire still glowing brightly to his left, and a man's body blocking most of the light but seemingly none of the heat. Frank's body felt soaked, and he realized it was, but not with seawater, with sweat.

"Frank? What happened? Are you okay?" the man—Bob, it was Bob, Frank remembered now—asked in a concerned voice.

"I couldn't reach him," Frank cried. The tears were still flowing freely from his eyes, and he didn't even attempt to stop them. The pillow beneath his head was damp. "I tried. I honestly did. He kept pulling away."

"What happened, Frank?" Bob asked again. He reached up and stroked the stringy hair off Frank's forehead. "Can you tell me?"

"I couldn't reach him," Frank repeated, his voice breaking over the words. "I couldn't. I tried. I couldn't reach."

"What couldn't you reach?"

"Matt—My first mate. My—My _friend_. Matt. _Matthew_ ," Frank moaned. He turned onto his side, his back to Bob and the fireplace, and rubbed his face against the clammy pillowcase. "I couldn't save him."

Bob rested his hand briefly on Frank's shoulder. He squeezed once, and then Frank heard him stand up and retreat.

He returned a few minutes later with a cool, damp cloth, which he placed gently across Frank's forehead. Frank choked on his tears and sucked in a huge breath of air, attempting to calm himself down. He wiped the cloth over his eyes, and the cool fabric felt amazing on his puffy eyelids. He rolled over onto his back, and Bob helped him arrange the cloth over the top half of his face. Frank took several deep breaths.

"There was nothing you could have done," Bob said softly. He gave Frank another comforting squeeze on the shoulder. "Rest, now. Your fever's breaking, so you'll finally be able to rest."

***

Frank felt like he'd slept for a very long time, well over a day, when he next woke, but Bob informed him gently that it had only been a few hours. Frank pushed himself up enough to see the ocean out the window several feet away from his cot. The sky was clear and cloudless, and the ocean—from what he could make out—seemed calm. Frank felt the pull deep in his chest to be out there, experiencing it firsthand.

A chill swept over him and he shivered. Bob lifted a blanket up around his shoulders. Frank twisted as much as was comfortable and stared up at Bob's face, his smooth, almost blank expression. He was holding himself carefully, Frank could tell; he was hiding something.

"What did you find?" Frank asked. His voice was a steady as he could manage, but it still sounded weak to his own ears.

"Nothing," Bob replied sympathetically. He laid his hand on Frank's shoulder and squeezed gently. "There was nothing, not even driftwood."

Frank didn't want to say that there was still time for things—for his crew—to wash up, because he knew how unlikely it was. The bodies had sunk by now, as had the ship, and if anything was still bobbing at the surface, it had been carried far away from this little island. Frank swallowed around the painful lump in his throat and nodded.

"I'm sorry, Frank," Bob added, and Frank knew he was sincere.

"They're better off at sea than buried in the ground," Frank murmured. It was the truth; Frank felt like the odd one out. He didn't want to be left on land, stranded, away from his home, his ship. He didn't want to be the one left alive.

Frank shifted his good leg so that his bare foot touched the cold wood floor.

"What are you doing?" Bob asked, his voice tight and tense.

"Standing up."

"You shouldn't—"

"Don't," Frank broke in sternly. He moved his hands slowly along the bandage the covered his thigh, testing it, trying to gauge his own strength, and then curled his fingers determinedly beneath his leg to drag it off the cot. There was less pain than he expected when his foot hit the floor; everywhere from his knee down felt like pins and needles, and he could only feel a dull throb in his thigh.

"Frank," Bob began cautiously. "I really don't think…"

Frank ignored him. He flexed his toes on the floor and pushed himself to his feet, unbothered by the blankets falling from around his waist and shoulders. There was a rush of cold air on his naked skin and Frank swayed forward, unbalanced.

The dull ache sharpened to a fiery pain when Frank tried to move his injured leg. It collapsed beneath him and Frank felt almost as if he were standing on the deck of a rocking ship again. The floor pitched under his feet and he saw it rushing up to meet him. It came as a complete surprise, too; Frank was genuinely unprepared for falling to the ground, in a way he hadn't been since he first stepped onto the Pencey and found his sea legs.

Bob's arms wrapped firmly around Frank's torso, holding him tightly and slowing his fall. He sat down on the floor with Frank half-reclining in his lap and his cheek pressed to Frank's hair. "Not yet. Please, just wait."

Frank had never been seriously injured before in his life. The crew on his ship had been generally healthy and sturdy men, bouncing back from illnesses and working through minor aches and pains. The worst Frank had ever had was a few broken toes, and that hadn't stopped him from limping around on deck and performing his duties as best he could. Frank didn't know how to deal with the uselessness of lying around and waiting to heal.

"I shouldn't have come here," he whispered under his breath. His men were dead, Matt was dead. Frank knew that the moment he gave the order to abandon ship. He shouldn't have kept trying; there was nothing of his life left.

Bob rose stiffly to his knees, dragging Frank with him, and hefted Frank back onto the cot. Frank neither helped nor hindered his efforts, and eventually Bob had him covered in the blankets again and had the fire roaring and chasing away the chill that had settled in Frank's bones.

"Give yourself time, Frank," Bob said gently. "Time to grieve, time to heal. Time to think. I know it's hard, and I know it hurts to just _wait_ , but you need time."

Bob pressed down on Frank's shoulder—not because Frank had moved at all, because he hadn't, but as a gesture of comfort, or understanding. It still felt to Frank like a command to stay still, and he didn't like it.

"I'm going to the mainland tomorrow," Bob said. "I don't think you should be moved, but I could bring a doctor back with me."

"No," Frank replied shortly. "Don't trouble yourself."

"Is there anyone I should notify? Perhaps your parents, or your wife—"

"No." Frank looked up at the window, but from the low vantage point on the cot he could only see the sky. "There's no one."

***

Bob left in the early morning, leaving Frank with a jug of water and a cup, a plate of crackers and other small snacks, and a newspaper from several weeks ago, which was apparently the most recent paper Bob owned. He said he'd be gone most of the day.

As much as he wanted to leave the cot, Frank wasn't stupid enough—or masochistic enough—to try and walk again, and he couldn't see anything good about merely collapsing to the floor. So Frank propped himself up with the pillow and the second blanket and tried to concentrate on reading.

There was nothing that kept Frank's mind busy enough for him to ignore the heartache and homesickness, and eventually Frank gave up and stared out the window instead. From this position, he could see the horizon, the blurry, grey area between the sky and the sea where they blended together out of his sight.

He stared until his back started to protest sitting upright and the sun had shifted completely, beginning to shine through the window, and the patches of sunlight crept slowly across the floor towards Frank.

He heard Bob approaching outside in the late afternoon. The gentle splashes of Bob's little boat interrupted the steady rhythm of the ocean, and then Frank heard Bob's feet pounding on the dock and crunching up through the sand towards the door.

"You're awake," Bob said when he entered. His cheeks were red from the cold and the wind, and his flyaway blonde hair was barely contained by his hat. He carried two large paper bags to the table and then went out to the boat for more. It took five trips for Bob to get all the groceries in, and Frank felt useless and guilty about not being able to help.

Bob assured him that he didn't mind; he was used to doing everything alone. Frank watched as he divvied up the supplies into two piles and carefully restocked the bags when he finished.

"What are those for, then?" Frank asked, noticing duplicate items going back into the paper sacks.

"The Ways," Bob replied.

"What? Who?" Frank asked. Bob's casual tone invited Frank's questions, and Frank was a slave to his curiosity.

"Mr. Way and his family live here. I ferry them to and from the mainland, or bring visitors over."

"And no one else lives here?" Frank asked.

"The Ways like their privacy. They're a strange family, and I mean that in the nicest way," Bob assured him. "Gerard and his wife are artists. They're… eccentric, and considerably wealthy. From what I've seen of the brother, he's a crazy of a different sort. He visits quite often, what with Miss Lindsey's new baby."

"Oh," Frank said quietly.

"They're all nice people, very nice people," Bob continued. "I'm lucky to have the opportunity to live here, with them."

Bob turned away from Frank to put away some of his own groceries. Frank considered the small house, and Bob's little boat and dock outside, and the way he'd been fixing the roof from the storm. "Doesn't it get lonely?" he asked after a moment.

"I like the quiet," Bob replied. "I maintain my connections with people on the mainland, still. And Miss Lindsey will insist I stay for dinner when I deliver their groceries tonight. I don't think—"

"You should," Frank broke in. "I don't need constant supervision."

"You can't walk, Frank," Bob said plainly.

"I've managed by myself all day," Frank replied stiffly. "I can be by myself for an evening."

Bob dug into one of the bags and pulled out a glass bottle with some sort of cloudy, thick liquid inside. He circled around the table and crouched down beside Frank's cot. "I saw a doctor, told him about the condition of your leg as well as I could remember, and he recommended bed-rest and gave me this, for the pain."

"I'm not in pain."

"Don't lie, Frank. I know it hurts whenever you move, whenever you think about it. You don't have to lie to me."

Bob pressed the bottle into Frank's hand and returned to the table to put the rest of the groceries away. Frank waited until Bob had his back turned before yanking at the cap of the bottle with shaking fingers. He felt it working almost instantly; the cool, foul-tasting liquid slithered down his throat and felt like it was coating everything inside him that hurt with a thin, impenetrable film.

"Doesn't it get lonely, out at sea?" Bob asked.

"No," Frank answered immediately, though that wasn't strictly true. There were times when Frank and his men missed being on land—usually during harsh storms or hot, dry days in the dead of summer—and of course fights broke out on occasion, but never anything serious. They were a family.

Frank had known most of the men since he was a child and the Pencey was his father's ship, and they were his father's crew. He'd even grown up with some of their sons, like he had with Matt. They were all a family.

"We loved it, out there. We all did."

"Your friend," Bob added softly.

"We grew up together," Frank explained. "We grew up on the Pencey, surrounded by my father's crew, wrecking havoc on port cities we visited. It's the only life I know."

"I really am sorry, Frank."

"Just go," Frank said, looking down at his lap, where he was still clutching the glass bottle. "Spend time with your family."

"They're not—"

"They're all you've got, right?" Bob's silence was enough of an answer. "Then they are," Frank said simply.

Frank ate a little of the food Bob handed him, but the medicine made him sleepy, and though he heard Bob putting on his coat and scarf, and then gathering the Ways' groceries, he didn't bother to open his eyes. After Bob left, the waves lapping the shore lulled Frank fully to sleep.

***

Frank continued drinking the awful-tasting medicine, and he eventually got into the habit of sleeping all night and staying awake during most of the day. Bob mostly puttered around the house, making meals for them or fixing things that needed to be fixed, like the chair with a shaky leg. He talked to Frank, sometimes, but they didn't mention the storm anymore, and Bob didn't press him for any more information.

After several days, Bob deemed Frank well enough to walk around on his own. He'd been changing the bandages on Frank's thigh almost every day, and blood was no longer soaking through the white gauze. Frank still couldn't bring himself to look at the wound. He turned his face away whenever Bob unwrapped it, and Bob gave him vague updates, saying that the worst of it, the deepest part of the gash, was slowly knitting itself back together.

Bob also gave him a set of clothes to wear, since Frank's own were so shredded and bloodstained that they were no longer wearable. Bob's trousers were too big and too long, but Frank appreciated the larger size when Bob helped him pull the thick fabric up over the bandage. They had to roll the cuffs up three times so they wouldn't drag on the floor. The shirt was similarly too big for Frank, but he let the sleeves hang over his hands and bundled up in the extra fabric.

Under Bob's supervision, Frank took his first limping steps towards one of the windows without help, and sat down on the low cabinet that doubled as a window seat. This window faced the shore, and Frank could see the mainland, hazy in the distance.

The water was calmer between the two stretches of land than Frank knew it would be out on the open sea. The waves lapped at the beach, gently rocking Bob's little boat. The skies were overcast and Frank could sense another storm on the way. He glanced across the room, through the window that faced the west, and saw the clouds get darker in the distance.

"Can you take me out there?" he asked in a low voice.

"Out where?"

"To the beach with the rocks. I need to see it."

"It's too far for you to walk," Bob hedged. "There's nothing there, not even the wood from your ship."

"But I still need to see it with my own eyes," Frank insisted.

"Not until you're healed, and you can take a step without flinching," Bob replied sternly.

Bob did take him out to the dock, though. Frank sat down against one of the posts with both legs stretched out in front of him and looked out at the mouth of the channel, where the whitecaps were more violent. Bob sat with him and didn't speak.

"We tried to get to the port before the storm caught up with us," Frank finally murmured, to break the silence. Bob didn't answer, and Frank waited for the muted creak of the boat before continuing. "But it was too fast, and the waves were too high. We took on so much water, just in the first few minutes. In my life, I've never seen a more violent storm."

Frank remembered the rain vividly, how he was dry one minute and soaked to the skin the next. His boots had sloshed through inches of water only a short time after the torrent had begun. Then the waves had started crashing over the side and onto the deck.

"Pencey was an old ship," Frank explained. "She wasn't designed to handle that abuse. The lower decks filled quickly, and we kept getting pounded by the waves. There was nothing I could do."

The words sounded hollow to Frank's ears, a cliché platitude that he didn't truly believe. There must have been something he could have done. If he'd just saved one person, if he'd saved Matt…

"There's another storm brewing," Bob said, tilting his face up towards the cloudy sky. Frank nodded in agreement. "Not as bad, probably."

"Hopefully," Frank replied.

Frank looked to the west. In the distance, Frank noticed the heavy column of rain stretching down towards the horizon and he shivered. It was coming.

"It's too cold out here," Bob said decisively. "Let's get back inside. I'll make us tea or hot chocolate or something."

Frank huddled into Bob's scarf and wrapped the tail around both his hands like a muff. He let Bob pull him to his feet and leaned on him as they walked up the boardwalk and back to the house.

He pulled a chair over to the window once they were inside, and Bob dragged the other one over as well, so they could watch the storm approach. Frank was transfixed by the wall of rain as it crept over the water and finally hit the beach.

When the heavy rain started hitting the newly-repaired roof of Bob's house, Frank flinched in surprise, even though he knew it was coming, even though he was watching it happen. The sound of the rain pounding on the roof was no longer soothing, as it once had been for Frank. It made him antsy, and made him want to hide from it.

Bob took the mug out of Frank's shaking hands, though it was still mostly full, and set it carefully on the table. Then he returned to Frank's side and put an arm over Frank's shoulders. He didn't need to say anything for the gesture to be understood as comforting. Frank stared out the window. He couldn't even see the end of Bob's dock anymore, the visibility was so poor.

Bob slid his other arm beneath Frank's knees and lifted him up off the chair. Frank didn't even bother to protest as Bob carried him over to the cot and laid him down carefully.

"Don't obsess over it," he said. "It's just rain."

He tossed another log onto the fire and prodded it back into a full roar, so the heat would counteract the cold wind that shook the house. Frank stared at the flames and tried to make the rain fade into white noise in the back of his mind.

***


	2. Undertow [part 1b]

"I'm going out tomorrow," Bob told him a few days after the second storm. "To the mainland. Gerard mentioned they needed paints, for their art."

Frank nodded, looking up at Bob as he swirled the pot of boiling water on the stove.

"Do you… Would you like to come with me?" Bob asked hesitantly. "I think you're well enough."

Frank thought for a moment, trying to remember the things he used to do whenever the Pencey pulled into a port. He found he had no real desire to leave the island, or Bob's isolated house. There was nobody waiting for him at the port, and without his ship, he had nothing to offer anyone. Bob waited patiently for his answer.

"No," Frank finally replied. "I'd like to stay here."

Bob nodded immediately. "Should I bring you anything?"

Again, Frank took a moment to think and really consider Bob's question. Bob didn't like to talk a lot—he was obviously used to living alone—and what he did say was measured and planned. Frank tried to respond in kind, aided by the fact that he just didn't feel like talking as he once had. Frank thought of the things he missed from being out at sea.

A lot of it, there was no way to get on shore. The gentle swaying of the deck was something only found on the water, for instance, as was the salty air and endless sky. Frank couldn't help but feel a little trapped by the trees that stood back from the beach.

Most of all, Frank missed his daily routine. He missed writing in his log book, and rereading his fantasy novels for the hundredth time when he had a spare moment in the evenings. He missed the camaraderie with his crew, and the way they slurred through drinking songs on calm nights. He missed lying with Matt up at the bow of the ship with their coats stuffed under their heads as pillows, each of them making up constellations and the stories to go with them.

"A book," Frank said, when he realized Bob was still waiting for him to respond. "To write in, I mean. Pen and ink. And do you have any novels?"

"I have a few," Bob replied. "They're in the trunk at the foot of my bed. Help yourself."

"Thanks," Frank said, giving Bob a small smile.

As Bob was just about to leave, Frank looked up and asked, "Did you tell them about me?"

"The Ways?" Frank nodded. "Yes, of course," Bob answered casually.

"Wasn't Mr. Way concerned about someone new staying on his island? He's never even met me."

"Gerard isn't like that," Bob said. "He's curious about you, I think, but he would never force you to leave. I think he's just waiting."

Frank cocked his head, digesting the little tidbits he'd heard about this man. "Waiting for what?"

"For you," Bob replied, as if it were obvious. "He's careful of people's emotions. He'll introduce himself when you're ready.

He turned away from Frank to pull his heavy coat over his shoulders. He then took his longest scarf from the hook by the door and wound it around his neck three times. He gave Frank a stern look when he turned back around.

"Be careful. Don't hurt yourself. I'll be back soon."

"Bye," Frank called after him, but Bob was already out the door.

Frank pushed himself up and limped over to the window seat, where he could watch Bob leave. There were clouds blocking the sun, but visibility at sea level was good, and Frank could see the opposite shore across the channel.

Bob sat down on the low seat in his boat and took the oars in hand. Frank guessed the distance to the mainland was a few miles, maybe less. Nonetheless, he was faintly surprised at the strength in Bob's arms.

The wide boat pulled away from the dock quickly with Bob digging the oars into the water with smooth, even strokes. His face was tilted up towards the house, but Frank knew he wasn't looking at the house. He probably wasn't looking at anything. Frank watched him go until he couldn't clearly make out Bob's face anymore.

Frank wasn't used to the quiet of being alone in the house. Even though Bob didn't talk a lot, his presence was still substantial. Frank felt the subtle drain of loneliness without another person's breath to counter his own.

***

Bob returned later in the day with two packages for Frank, both wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He carried a larger paper sack in his arms—it looked heavy—and told Frank it was for Gerard.

"These are yours. I'll deliver this to the Ways and come back for dinner."

Bob hadn't even taken off his coat and scarf before heading out again, this time walking up the path and into the trees, away from the water.

Frank untied the string and peeled back the paper carefully. Inside the first package was a thick, lined notebook, bound in the type of smooth leather that would never last out at sea. Frank flipped through a few pages and stopped to trace the top line with his index finger. The paper was very good quality, and Frank was somewhat overwhelmed.

The ink and pens—a whole _set_ of pens, not just one; what was Bob thinking?—were also quite obviously expensive, and Frank held them gently, placed them carefully back in the little box when he finished.

Bob didn't strike Frank as a wealthy man. He said himself that he was employed by Gerard Way and lived on this island as part of his job. His little house wasn't extravagantly furnished, and he repaired things like leaky roofs and squeaky chairs himself.

When Bob came back, Frank said immediately, "This is too much; I can't accept this. I don't have anything to pay you back."

"You don't need to pay me back," Bob replied, unwinding his scarf and turning to hang it on its hook.

"But these are expensive," Frank protested. He dragged his thumb along the edges of the pages.

"I'm used to buying the best," Bob explained. "Gerard likes his supplies to be well-made; they last longer, he says. I wanted to get you something that would last, Frank."

"But the money! I can't repay this. I'm already taking your food and your home—"

"Frank, stop. I live here at Gerard's expense," he said quietly. "I buy food and clothes and art supplies with his money. He has a lot of it, Frank, and he believes in buying the best. So I bought the best journal and the best pens and they're yours."

"Gerard Way hasn't even met me!"

Bob shook his head. "That doesn't matter to him. He doesn't expect to be paid back, either."

Frank looked down at the book in his lap, confused. "I don't understand. That's not… Is that normal?"

Bob ignored him for a moment, puttering around the kitchen and filling the kettle to make tea. When he finished, he threw a new log on the fire and sat down in his armchair, across from Frank.

"He doesn't pay me a salary," Bob explained. "You're right, it's not normal. It's like I'm living in their house, which I kind of am, in a way. This is his island, and I'm living on it. He pays for anything I need. And now you're here, and he's paying for these, for you."

"But I don't do anything," Frank insisted. "You pay him back by ferrying groceries to and from the mainland. I just… sit here."

Bob looked at Frank like he'd said something incredibly dim. "You're injured, Frank," he said slowly.

"I don't want some rich stranger's charity."

"Yes, you do."

"I don't want to be pitied—"

Bob put his hands on Frank's knees, to get his attention. "Frank, listen. Gerard is going to let you stay here for as long as you need, or want. If you want to leave the island, you're not obligated to repay him, but right now, while you're still recovering, you don't have to worry about it. Once you're better, once you can walk again, you'll meet him, and you can talk about what you could do for him in return."

Frank stared at him.

"For now, accept the gift and focus on healing. Don't worry about things like who's paying for your food."

Frank looked down at the journal again and touched the leather-covered spine. "It's a really nice journal."

"Yes."

"I feel strange about accepting this," Frank admitted softly.

"Think of it as a get-well-soon gift. You can thank Gerard for it when you meet him." Bob paused, giving Frank time to object again. He didn't, so Bob changed the subject. "How's your leg?"

"Better," Frank replied. "The medicine helps with the pain."

"Good. I'll make us some dinner."

***

Frank put on several layers of Bob's old clothes, packed up his new journal and pens, and told Bob very sternly to take him to the rocky beach. Bob looked him up and down, took in Frank's stony determination, and nodded.

They walked through the edge of the forest, where the ground was hard-packed dirt instead of sand, and easier to walk on. Frank limped with each step, but Bob kept the pace slow. They were in no rush.

"Does the beach have a name?" Frank asked.

"None of the beaches do," Bob replied. He bent down and picked up a long tree branch that had fallen to the ground. "Walking stick? I'll carry your book."

Frank gratefully handed over his new journal and took the walking stick from Bob's outstretched hand. Just having something to lean on made walking easier. They trudged on in companionable silence for the better part of an hour.

"We're probably getting close. Do you remember where you landed?"

Bob led Frank through the trees and out onto the white sand. He stayed right at Frank's side, to steady him if the soft sand made him stumble. The trees were at their backs, and between them and the ocean was practically a wall of black boulders.

"This stretches on for a while," Bob explained, "and tapers off towards my end of the island."

They walked a short distance, and then Frank put his hand on Bob's arm to stop him.

"I didn't find anything, when I came here before," Bob murmured, barely audible over the crashing waves beyond the rocks. "Not even driftwood."

"But this is it," Frank insisted. He wasn't naive enough to believe that something—or someone—from his ship would be on the other side, but now that he was here, he had to see. "Help me climb up?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Bob hesitated.

Frank threw his walking stick to the ground and grabbed a handhold on the rock. "Then I'll climb up myself."

Bob was at his back instantly, giving him a boost up. It was much easier to climb the rock than Frank remembered from that night. But it had been dark and raining, and he'd been newly injured. His leg was almost healed, now, at least on the surface. Bob spotted him all the way to the top ledge, and then climbed up to sit beside him.

There was nothing caught in the rocks, and nothing out on the horizon. Frank exhaled slowly and listened to the monotonous crashing of the waves, and the hissing as the water splashed up and washed away.

Matt was somewhere out there, sunk to the bottom of the ocean because Frank couldn't reach him in time. The rest of his crew was somewhere out there, too, because Frank couldn't lead them out of the storm. He should be out there with them. A captain goes down with his ship, and yet Frank was the only person left alive.

"Can I be alone, please?" Frank asked, choking on the words. He had wanted to write in his journal about what happened to the ship and his men, and mostly what happened to Matt, but he knew he couldn't do it now.

"I won't leave you up here alone," Bob replied gently. He put his hand on Frank's knee.

Frank looked down at it, Bob's large, gloved hand resting on the unfamiliar trousers, and then back out at the water. He didn't acknowledge the tears suddenly streaming down his cheeks, and neither did Bob.

After only a few minutes, Frank started to feel like he was back underwater; he couldn't draw in enough air without choking, and he felt so unbearably cold, with the wind biting every inch of exposed skin and the winter temperature chilling the rest of him, even through the heavy clothes.

Bob wrapped an arm around Frank's shoulders and drew him in close, cradling him against his chest. Bob was warm, and he positioned himself so that he was blocking the worst of the wind. Frank buried his face in Bob's scarf, not even trying to breathe. He just choked out more sobs and waited for the feeling to pass.

Only, he wasn't sure it ever would.

***

Bob gave him time alone back at the house. Frank settled down at the end of the dock, his good leg pulled up close enough to his body to rest his journal on. He flipped the book open to the first lined page and looked out over the calm sea.

Frank started his log with a description of his ship, then the nature of their business, and then, finally, a crew manifest. He listed occupations beside the names; at least, as many as he could remember. He worked his way down through the ranks, heading the page with _Matthew Cortez, First Mate_ , and trailing off uncertainly as he got down to the deckhands he'd only just hired for this voyage. He couldn't even remember their names.

Frank turned to a new page.

 _12 November_ , he wrote. _A storm heading in from the West chased us to shore. My plan was to hug the coast and let the wind push us toward the mainland, where we could go into port for repairs, but the storm was too much for the ship. The crew held her steady while they could. The onslaught of violent wind and rain tore the sails, and the waves pushed her under and cracked the hull. To the best of my knowledge, the Pencey broke apart under the weight of the water, and started flooding from the lower decks. What crew was left gathered on the top deck and followed my orders to abandon ship._

 _I knew there was no chance for the men once they jumped, but I couldn't let them stay on a sinking ship. If I'd acted differently, maybe a few would have survived. Cortez and I were the last to go._

Frank paused, wondering how detailed his account should be. He remembered that night vividly. He remembered Matt's hoarse voice calling out for Frank, and he remembered Matt's hand clawing at the water as he was pushed under. Frank couldn't put watching his best friend die into words.

 _Cortez didn't make it off the ship. He was trapped and drowned, out of my reach. I couldn't untangle the ropes holding me in time to save him. I lost consciousness as the ship was torn apart and the debris scattered and sunk. I washed ashore, injured, and found the aid of a man, Robert Bryar, living on this island._

 _I was the only crew member to survive the storm. No bodies or debris have come ashore to my knowledge. The Pencey, her crew, and her cargo are all lost to sea._

 _~ Captain Frank Iero, 27 November._

***

Once Frank could move again without being in too much pain, it was fairly easy to fall into a routine: Bob always woke early and started doing whatever chores needed to be done; Frank got up soon after and hobbled around the small kitchen, making breakfast. They ate together and then continued working in companionable silence.

Sometimes Bob went to the mainland for supplies, or visited the Ways. He always invited Frank, but Frank always declined. He wasn't even sure why he was avoiding meeting Gerard; Bob had nothing but good things to say about him and his wife. He just wasn't ready yet.

One day, Bob stayed at the table with Frank and gave him a long, considering look. Frank pushes his spoon around his bowl and stared down at the remnants of their breakfast, uneasy under Bob's stare.

"Why won't you meet him?" Bob asked, breaking the silence. He didn't have to say who; it was like they were continuing a conversation they'd never even started.

"I don't know," Frank said honestly, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.

"Are you scared?"

Bob's question wasn't taunting or malicious, but Frank bristled anyway. He shrugged again and forced the words out. "Maybe. I want to stay here."

"He won't kick you out," Bob said gently. "But listen, Frank… I've been thinking."

Bob fell silent and Frank tensed, waiting for whatever unwelcome thing Bob was about to say.

"This house wasn't meant for two," he finished quietly.

Frank sucked in a breath and held it. He didn't know how to respond, and he desperately didn't want to leave.

"You don't need to leave," Bob continued quickly, as if reading Frank's mind. "Of course you're welcome here as long as you need. But you're well enough now that you don't need my help, and you should… You should consider what you want to do now."

"I don't know what I want to do," Frank replied helplessly. He finally looked up to meet Bob's apologetic gaze.

"You don't have to leave," Bob repeated. "I'm just saying that you should think about whether you want to stay on the island or begin a new life. It's time you started to figure yourself out."

Bob stood up from the table and cleared their dishes, leaving Frank in a stunned silence.

***

Later that week, Bob insisted that Frank accompany him to the mainland. He didn't let Frank help him row the little ferryboat; Frank sat with his back to Bob instead, watching the cozy house on the shore shrink into the distance.

The steady rocking of the boat felt natural to Frank, and he was surprised to find how much he missed being out on the water. Even just feeling the salty breeze blowing through his hair was a comfort.

They pulled into a short, empty dock and Frank tied up the boat before Bob could protest. The city market was a couple of streets over and it only took them a few minutes to walk there. As they entered the main street, Frank was nearly bowled over by the amount of activity.

He'd known, of course, that this was a busy port city, but he was unprepared for seeing the familiar mix of sailors and merchants shouting out prices and brash insults. He felt both entirely at home in the environment and completely overwhelmed. He stayed close to Bob as they walked down the street.

Intellectually, Frank knew that he didn't stand out. The tattoos on his arms identified him as a man who belonged here, and a slight limp wasn't unusual or even noticeable to most of these people. He didn't have a wide circle of acquaintances outside his own crew, so he wasn't afraid of running into familiar faces. But he still felt as if everyone was watching him, as if they all knew what he'd been through, what he'd lost.

By the time they reached the doctor's office, Frank was breathing harshly and glued to Bob's side. Bob laid his hand gently on Frank's lower back, guiding and comforting him, and Frank relaxed slightly once they left the busy street.

Bob led him through a hallway and into a sitting room outside what Frank presumed to be the doctor's examination room. Frank lowered himself carefully into one of the chairs and sat perched on the edge rather than relaxed into the thick cushions. He watched somewhat apprehensively as Bob paced the room and finally knocked on the door.

A man not much taller than Frank opened the door a few moments later. He was dressed in a white coat and he had a sharp look of intelligence and determination about his face. He stepped aside to let an old man out, and then motioned for Frank and Bob to come in.

"Doctor, this is Frank Iero…" Bob began, helping Frank to his feet.

"Mr. Iero—"

"Captain," Frank broke in automatically. It was a reflex, and guilt clogged his throat. He shook his head, waving off whatever apology the doctor was about to say.

"Please come in," the doctor said instead. "I'm Brian Schechter. Friend of the family."

"Whose?" Frank asked.

"The Ways and Mr. Bryar, both. Please, Frank, come in."

Frank let out a breath and moved into the room, Bob right on his heels. It was stark and sterile, exactly what Frank expected doctors' offices on land to look like. He was used to the ship's medical officer, though; a few tables cleared aside, a curtain drawn across the cabin for privacy. The clean white and gleaming metal of this office made him uneasy.

Bob took Frank's arm, squeezed it once as a subtle gesture of comfort, and helped him climb onto the table.

"How have you been recovering?" Dr. Schechter asked in a businesslike tone. His eyes scanned up and down Frank's body, taking in everything from the oversized clothes to the white-knuckled grip Frank had on the edge of the table.

"Well enough, I think," Bob answered for him. "Obviously he can walk again, without too much pain. Right, Frank?"

Frank nodded and Schechter seemed to approve. He gestured towards Frank's waist. "Alright, then, take off your trousers, let me examine you."

Frank rolled his eyes and unbuttoned the pants, shoving them down as much as he could without getting off the table again. Bob helped yank them off his legs, and then moved to the bandage Frank still wore around his thigh.

The doctor unwound the gauze and peered closely at the bruised skin surrounding the scab. He poked and prodded and Frank looked away; he didn't want to see the wound, and he didn't want to see Schechter's reactions to it.

"Looks like you've done a good job keeping it clean," Schechter muttered. "No infection, and it seems to be healing well. Don't put too much strain on it, still; it's at a fragile stage and could tear open again easily. If it does, I recommend putting in stitches to keep the wound closed. I'm frankly surprised it's healed this well without them."

The doctor re-wrapped the bandage and straightened up, giving Frank another once-over. Frank tried not to squirm under his gaze. Weirdly, Bob seemed even more nervous than Frank was, and kept shifting his weight and staring at Schechter apprehensively.

"I'll let you get dressed," Schechter said to Frank, "and Bob, I want to talk to you outside."

Frank wasn't sure what was going on, but Bob and the doctor disappeared into the sitting room, leaving Frank to struggle with the trousers on his own. He heard the quiet murmurs of voices on the other side of the door but he couldn't make out what they were saying, and he resolved to ask Bob about it on the way back to the island.

***

It was evening before Frank thought to ask about the doctor. He and Bob were sorting groceries into separate piles for them and for the Ways, and he finally blurted out his question.

"It was nothing," Bob replied, brushing him off.

"It wasn't nothing. Is something wrong?"

Bob sighed. "It's just that we've known each other a long time, and he was angry with me for not taking you to him earlier. He just wanted to tell me how much…"

"How much what?"

"How much better off you'd be if you'd seen him first, and I hadn't tried to take care of you myself," Bob finished bitterly.

"What do you mean, better off? That's bullshit, Bob, that's completely—"

"He's right, though. I should have gotten his opinion. He's a good doctor. You'd be better by now," Bob said quietly.

"I am better," Frank replied. "I swear to God, I am. Bob Bryar, you saved my life, and I won't forget that."

Bob tried to shrug him off, but Frank could tell he was mollified. Frank decided to push it even further and said, "I could go with you tonight, to visit the Ways. If you want."

Bob finally broke into a smile, but he hesitated before answering.

"I want to meet them," Frank said sincerely. "I'm ready to meet them, now."

***

It was a short walk from Bob's house to the Way Estate. The path through the forest was well-worn and clear of tree roots and debris, and as the island was generally flat, it didn't put a strain on Frank's healing leg.

The house was mostly hidden by the trees, so Frank didn't understand how large it was until they were walking up to the front door. It was more of a mansion than a house; three stories tall in the center, tapering down to two and one floor in both directions. On the rightmost corner, though, there was a tower that poked up above the tree line. Frank stood and stared at the house until he heard the clank of the gargoyle-head doorknocker. He shook himself out of his daze and joined Bob on the front step.

A man Frank assumed was Gerard opened the door a few seconds later, smiling broadly. He was dressed sharply in a tightly-fitting black waistcoat and trousers, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows. His tie was loose but the knot was neat and straight. His hair was another story.

It was black as ink and reached his shoulders, though most of it was caught in a tangled mess on his head. A few strands fell over his forehead, where there was a dusky smudge of ink or charcoal. Otherwise, the man's face was pale and smooth; he was much younger than Frank expected.

"You must be Frank!" he said excitedly, holding out a hand for Frank to shake. His eyes were sparkling and he seemed genuinely pleased when Frank took his hand and nodded. "My name's Gerard," he said, not letting go of Frank's hand. "Bob's told me about you. I'm so glad to finally meet you!"

"Uh, yes," Frank replied uncertainly. "He's told me about you, too."

Gerard finally let go of him and pulled Bob into a quick hug. "Good to see you again, Bob," he murmured. When he stepped back, he opened the door wide and spread his arms, inviting them in.

"Linds!" he called. "Bob's here. He brought Frank!"

"Be down in a minute!" came the reply from one of the upper floors.

"Are you staying for dinner?" Gerard asked, turning back to address both of them. "It wouldn't be any trouble."

Bob looked to Frank, who shrugged. Gerard waved away the question and lead them through the front entrance. They passed a wide, spiraling staircase and went into some sort of parlor room. Paintings lined the walls, some hung and some just leaning, both against the walls and the furniture. Gerard motioned for them to sit down.

Bob took an armchair. Frank moved to the sofa and Gerard sat down next to him, smiling brightly again. Frank couldn't help but smile back.

"You're much younger than I thought you'd be," Gerard said at last.

It startled Frank into laughter. "I could say the same for you," he replied. "How are you…" He realized abruptly that it was probably impolite to ask about Gerard's obvious wealth.

Gerard glanced pointedly around the room. "It comes from being a Lord," he answered. "My brother runs the estate we grew up in, but I took my inheritance and moved away, to start my own life. I like it here."

"It's a beautiful house," Frank said, as sincerely as he could muster.

"Thank you!" Gerard beamed at him again. "My wife and I designed most of it. Of course the architects had to make everything livable, but… I think most of our intentions remained. I'll take you on a tour, later."

"Miss Lindsey," Bob said warmly, interrupting them. Frank turned around, following Bob's gaze, and saw a young woman turning the corner into the room. Bob stood up and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

She looked… oddly like Gerard, though Frank couldn't mistake them as siblings. Like Gerard, she had jet-black hair, although hers was much better maintained, flowing like silk over her shoulders. Her dress was also like his clothes; a tight-fitting black bodice and white sleeves, rolled up to her elbows. Her skirt, however, was a deep, dusky red that matched her lipstick.

She smiled at Frank and sat down on his other side, taking his hand between both of hers.

"It's so nice to meet you, Frank! Bob's told us so much…" Her gaze dropped to Frank's hand, the tattoos on his knuckles. She tilted her head, trailing off into silence. Her thumb grazed Frank's knuckles, and then she pulled her hands away.

"Lady B is down for her nap," she said to her husband, "and if she wakes, it's your turn to sing to her."

Gerard grinned like he just couldn't help it. Lindsey pecked Frank on the cheek, leaned over him to ruffle Gerard's hair, and then she stood up again and held out her hand for Bob.

"Come on, Robert, I've something to show you," she said in a playfully solemn tone. Bob gave Frank a quick glance, to make sure he was alright with being alone with Gerard, and followed Lindsey out of the room.

"That's my wife," Gerard said unnecessarily, as soon as their footsteps on the stairs had faded. "She's an artist—we both are. I've heard we can be… overwhelming, sometimes."

"It's fine," Frank replied. In truth, seeing Gerard and Lindsey together made Frank's heart squeeze in a way he hadn't really experienced before. He didn't have much experience with families, or with women, not even his own mother. The women he knew were whores in the busy port cities, or merchant's wives, endlessly waiting for their husbands to return. He looked to the door Lindsey and Bob had disappeared through. "She's lovely," he finished.

Gerard patted Frank's knee lightly. "Come, Frank, let me show you the house."

Frank was used to living in the tight quarters of the Pencey; whatever personal items he or the men had were small, easily stored. The Ways obviously did not have those limitations. Each room had a different theme. There was a large music room, with a harpsichord and a pianoforte and guitars and fiddles and other instruments Frank didn't even know the names of, and there was a room full of thick swaths of cloth and drawers full of needles and spools of thread. A tiny, unfinished dress in navy blue fabric hung from one of the shelves.

"Lindsey likes making things for the baby," Gerard explained affectionately. "I'd help her but I've stabbed myself too many times with those needles to be of any use."

He led Frank through a maze of hallways—all of which had paintings and drawings hanging from the walls in abundance—to a library. Frank stopped short, looking around in wonder. This room had more books than the bookshops Frank visited on occasion, to replenish his supply of adventure novels. The shelves were tall enough to need ladders, and there was a wide table in the center with even more books and papers stacked on it.

Gerard turned back to face him. "Do you like books, Frank?"

"There's so many," Frank said softly.

"You've probably noticed that I like to collect things," Gerard murmured. "Books are chief among my obsessions. I don't know if Bob mentioned that I'm an author. My brother long ago convinced me to advance from bedside storytelling to published novels."

"You write novels?" Frank asked. He stepped fully into the room, joining Gerard at the table. They stood across from each other, and Gerard leaned over it, pushing a book towards Frank.

"This is the first thing I ever published, before I met my wife and we started working together," he said. "It's an adventure story. I used to tell it to my brother when we were kids." He caught Frank's eye and smiled conspiratorially. "There are pirates."

Frank grinned. "Really?"

"I'm sure they're nothing like the real thing, but the stereotypes served my purposes well enough back then." He watched Frank pick up the book and flip through the first few pages. "You're welcome to borrow it."

A note on the title page caught Frank's eye. "You illustrated it as well?"

"One of my many hobbies," Gerard replied casually.

"No wonder you're rich," Frank murmured under his breath, fanning through the pages until he came to one of the illustrations. It was an ink drawing depicting a man with a telescope, the ocean in the distance. Frank smiled. It was quite good. "Are the books popular?"

"They do well enough," he said. "It's not like I'm desperate for the money, but it never hurts to be paid well. I support a lot of people; they depend on that money."

"Including me," Frank said quietly, looking down at the polished wood floor. He put the book back down on the table.

"And you're welcome to it," Gerard replied, matching Frank's tone. He came around the table and stepped into Frank's field of view, then reached out and touched Frank's arm. "For as long as you need or want, Frank, you're welcome here."

"You don't even know me," Frank muttered.

"Bob trusts you, and that's enough for me. I'd like to know you, Frank."

"I can't do anything to repay you."

Gerard hesitated for a few seconds; Frank glanced up and saw that his mouth was open, poised to respond. After a beat, he said, "Friendship would be payment enough."

Frank broke into a slow smile. "I can do that."

Gerard beamed at him and took his hand excitedly. "Come with me, there's something I want to show you. I think you'll like this."

Gerard took him through another handful of rooms that looked like they hadn't been used in a long time, and they finally came to the base of the tower Frank had seen from outside. The attached room was filled with wide drawers and a large drafting table. Gerard moved Frank to the side and opened a couple of the drawers, pulling out sheets of thick paper. Maps. He spread them out on the table and lit the gas lamp. Frank looked outside and noticed that the sun was setting; he'd been there for hours already.

"Come look," Gerard murmured, bending over the table to peer closely at the map. Frank mirrored him, looking for things he recognized. It was the island, he realized.

Bob's house was drawn to scale on the eastern shore, and the path through the forest was marked clearly. Gerard's estate took up a significant amount of space on the map, positioned well into the trees but on the west side of the island. Beyond the house was a cove, blocked on two sides by jetties. The rest of the island didn't have a lot of distinguishing features, and nothing was named. Frank saw the area with the black rocks extending to the north beyond one of the cove's jetties, and on the south side of the island was a place almost completely empty of trees. Frank traced his finger along the coastline.

"The island's only that large at low tide," Gerard explained in a low voice. "It's very flat, so when the tide comes in, the water comes up to here." Gerard covered Frank's hand with his own and slid it inland, until it almost met the marks of the trees.

"It's a small island," Frank murmured.

"Yes. It's secluded."

"Do you own it?"

Gerard nodded. "I do. One of the benefits of my status. I'm allowed my reclusive tendencies, as long as my brother and my lawyers make their appearances."

"You're so…" Frank trailed off, trying to think of a more appropriate word for 'vibrant'. "Why do you like being by yourself?"

"I'm not well-suited for politics," Gerard admitted. "I don't think that way. I got tired of people questioning me, so I left." He suddenly brightened up and took Frank's hand again. "Come up with me, you can see the whole island from the tower."

They trudged up the tightly-spiraled staircase together. It was built like a lighthouse, though Frank didn't see any light at the top, only a circular room lined with windows. Gerard kept his pace slow, careful not to rush Frank.

The view from the top was breathtaking. The tops of the trees were several feet below, and they tapered off in all directions, allowing an unobstructed view of the entire island. Frank saw the beach Gerard had mentioned, a long, wide stretch of sand. The tide must've been out.

On the other side of the island, Frank found the black rocks. He could see the violent waves even from this distance. He followed them until they disappeared and saw a rocky jetty facing north, sheltering the mouth of the channel. Across it, Frank could even see the mainland, the buildings and the sails of the ships at the port city.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Gerard asked, standing back. Frank nodded, unable to find words.

They stood up there until the sun had fully set, and then Gerard sat down on the floor with the gas lamp he'd carried up. Frank joined him after a moment.

"Will you tell me about yourself, Frank?" Gerard asked gently. "Bob said that you were a captain. You must've seen so much."

Frank shrugged. "I've seen some, I guess. I've been around."

"What was your ship's purpose? What did you do?"

"We were just… just a merchant vessel, carrying cargo. We didn't take passengers; we didn't have the beds. She was a small ship, the Pencey. She was home, though," Frank began, fighting not to sound too heartbroken. He reached into the collar of his shirt and fingered the pocket watch chain that hung around his neck, beneath his clothes.

"What was it like? It must've been amazing." Gerard sounded duly amazed, and Frank had to remind himself that Gerard was a man who wrote pirate stories. He probably dreamed of living out at sea, finding adventure and exotic lands. Frank decided not to shatter his illusions and tell him about the long days with not enough food or drink, and the boredom of windless weather and no movement.

He focused on the better things. He remembered his crew, the camaraderie of playing cards and drinking games, and dancing to crude music on the good days. He remembered the wind in his hair, biting at his cheeks when he stood at the helm with Cortez. He remembered he endless stars at night, when darkness enveloped them.

Frank found himself spilling all of these things to Gerard, who listened attentively. Gerard didn't ask questions, and that only made Frank talk more. When he mentioned Cortez, the words finally caught in his throat and shut him up. He couldn't talk about Matt without acknowledging the crushing weight of sadness. He missed his friend desperately, constantly, but most of the time he was able to push those feelings to the back of his mind.

Gerard scooted closer to him and wrapped his arm around Frank's shoulders. He didn't say anything, just let Frank lean on him. Frank didn't cry; he wouldn't do that in front of this man he just met, no matter how kind he was, or how easy he was to talk to. They sat together for a long while; Frank focused on the flickering flame of the lamp and nothing else, and eventually he felt like he could move again without the world shifting under him.

Gerard stood and pulled Frank to his feet. "Are you staying for dinner?" he asked quietly.

"I'd rather be alone," Frank replied, not meeting Gerard's eyes.

"I understand," Gerard said, and he sounded like he really did understand. He stayed at Frank's side as they walked down the stairs and back into the map room. "Frank," he said, "I want you to know that you're welcome here anytime. I hope you come back soon."

As they retraced their steps through the library, Frank looked around and gave Gerard a small smile. "I'm sure I will."

Gerard picked up the book from the table, where they'd left it, and handed it over. "You'll have to, to return my book," he said smugly. He sobered, though, and continued, "You're welcome to stay on this island as long as you want, Frank. I like you."

Frank looked down at the book, stroking his finger along the spine. "Thanks," he murmured. "For the book, and for, you know. Your hospitality. Everything."

"You're welcome," Gerard replied sincerely.

They made their way back to the main living area of the house and found Lindsey and Bob in the kitchen. Bob was holding the baby girl in his arms, making faces at her, and she was giggling and pulling at his beard with her tiny fists. Lindsey noticed them first. She held up a block of cheese.

"Are you boys hungry?"

"They're not staying for dinner," Gerard answered gently. Lindsey's face fell, just a little, but she nodded and came over to Frank.

"You'll come back and visit soon, yes? I wanted to ask you about your tattoos." She reached up and slid her fingers over the scorpion on his neck. Her fingers brushed the chain of the pocket watch but she didn't comment.

"Of course," Frank said, startled. "Of course I will."

"He promised to return my book," Gerard added. He took the baby from Bob and kissed her chubby cheek. "I see my girl woke up from her nap."

"She did," Bob replied. "And then she grabbed me and wouldn't let go."

"She loves you," Gerard cooed. Frank smiled helplessly at the sight of the two men fawning over the little girl. Lindsey patted Frank's cheek.

"Come on, I'll see you out," she said happily.

Bob had no trouble navigating through the forest in the dark of twilight. He guided Frank with a hand on his shoulder, or at the small of his back, to make sure he didn't trip over a stray root or anything, and in no time, Frank could hear the sound of the waves lapping the shore.

"You didn't want to stay?" Bob asked in a low voice, as they approached his house.

"I like them. Gerard, anyway. He's…"

Bob gave Frank a quick smile. "Yeah, I know."

"I talked to him," Frank admitted quietly.

"He's easy to talk to. He's a good listener."

"I didn't want to tell him anything more. It was like I couldn't stop myself, and I just…" Frank sighed and leaned against the doorframe. "I guess I'm not ready yet."

Bob patted his shoulder and pulled him inside. "And that's okay, Frank."

***

Bob didn't push Frank to visit the Ways again that week. He still made his trip to the estate with groceries and an expensive bottle of ink, but he didn't invite Frank along, and Frank was grateful.

Frank genuinely liked Gerard, and he liked Lindsey from the few minutes he'd spent with her. But what he'd told Bob was the truth; around Gerard, Frank felt his innermost thought spilling out into the air, where anyone could see. He was absolutely sure that Gerard wasn't manipulating him on purpose, but Gerard had the dangerous quality of making people trust him. Frank just wasn't ready for that yet.

Frank's trust in Bob had grown over time—a short time, yes, but it was a learned reaction to Bob's presence. His trust in Gerard was immediate, indefinable, and strange. Frank couldn't find reason in it beyond Gerard's natural charisma, and that bothered him.

Gerard's friendship was too tempting to pass up, though. Perhaps, once Frank had truly come to terms with his own experiences and his own grief, he could pay Gerard back in full. Until that time, he could wait and recover.

Gerard had practically offered the island as a place for Frank to settle, and Frank began to seriously consider making his own home there. He had no desire, at the moment, to return to the sea; all it brought were bad memories. His trip to the port had shown him how much of a coward he really was, and how badly he wanted isolation. Not even the draw of the salty wind in his hair was enough to pull him back to his old life.

He decided to ask Bob for advice.

***

"This house isn't really made for two people," Bob repeated, not meeting Frank's eyes. Frank didn't take that for anything other than what it was: truth.

Frank was completely mobile and healthy, and he and Bob had started stepping on each other's toes in the cramped house. It was obvious that Bob was used to living by himself, and Frank, though accustomed to having other people afoot, wasn't adjusting to his extended stay in Bob's house very well.

"I know," he answered simply.

"Are you thinking of leaving?"

"I don't know," Frank replied, somewhat honestly. He wasn't sure, but he did have ideas.

"Where will you go?"

Frank shrugged. "Gerard's made me an offer, of sorts. I just don't know… I'm not like you, Bob, I don't have services to give in exchange for his hospitality. I can't repay him. I can't do anything for him."

"If Gerard's made you any kind of offer, then that doesn't matter," Bob pointed out. "He's a smart man, Frank, he surrounds himself with good people. And you're one of them, now." He paused. "If you accept, that is."

"It's tentative, anyway," Frank replied, waving his hand. "I'm not sure I could stay. I just wanted to… ask."

"You're welcome as long as you want, you know that."

"I do," Frank said. "Thank you."

***

Frank started going out during the day, to give Bob some time alone and to explore the island for himself. He kept Gerard's maps in the back of his mind and poked through the forest, searching for landmarks and features the map hadn't shown.

He felt a pull to the shore, though, and spent much of his time walking along the beaches. He visited the wide, sandy beach at low tide, just to see, but he spent much of his time along the north shore, where the coast was rocky and the water was a little rougher.

Most days, he tried to clear his mind. He thought he was doing well, not dwelling on the death of his shipmates. He felt happier, though the weight of grief was still unbearably heavy. Other days, Frank brought his journal out with him.

After a few weeks, he started gravitating towards the same spot on the north shore. He watched the waves beat against the jetty and lost himself in the little whirlpools the tide formed. He wrote in his journal about things that didn't matter: the state of the sand, the sound of the wind in the trees. It was better that way.

***

There was nothing on the horizon but a layer of clouds, dark grey and thick, hanging low over the choppy waves. The water crashing onto the beach drowned out even the sound of the trees blowing in the wind. Frank was caught off-guard when a man suddenly sat down next to him. He was wearing a black suit with a decorative embroidered pattern around the cuffs, and his long legs stretched out in front of them.

"Who are you?" Frank asked in alarm.

"My brother said I'd find you here."

"Your brother?"

"Gerard Way," the man clarified. "My name's Michael."

"Oh. You're his brother?" Frank shifted to face Michael head-on. The man wore glasses and a hat, and the tips of his hair fluttered against his forehead in the wind. Frank could see the resemblance to Gerard, vaguely.

"Yes," Michael replied. "I'm here visiting Bandit."

"Bandit?"

"His daughter. She's almost a year old."

"Oh, right, I'm sorry," Frank said, "I only met them once—"

"Understandable," Michael interrupted. "Gerard and Lindsey mostly keep to themselves, and Bob says you do too. Is this where you want to live? Gerard says you sit out here a lot."

"Wait, how does he know I'm here?" Frank asked shrilly. He looked over Michael's shoulder, but couldn't see anyone through the line of trees.

"He watches you sometimes," Michael replied simply. "I like this spot. It would be nice for a house."

Frank was more than a little unsettled by Michael's statement, but he found himself nodding. Michael jerked his head in reply and stood up, brushing sand off his suit.

"Gerard gives you his blessing."

"I haven't even decided—"

"He'll help you build a house here," Michael cut in firmly. "He wants you to stay."

Frank was again shocked into silence. He stared dumbly at Michael for a moment before finally nodding in agreement. Michael stood up abruptly and brushed the sand off his neat suit.

"I'll see you, Frank."

He disappeared as quickly as he'd come, and Frank stared after him in confusion. Michael was correct, though: this area would make an excellent place to build a house. The ground was firm up by the forest, and it gently tapered into a sandy stretch of beach before reaching the natural jetty that ran parallel to the mainland.

Bob's little house faced the mainland along the island's east coast, and the Ways occupied the westernmost shore, at the cove past the black rocks. This place was somewhere in the middle between them, on the north side of the island. It was a place Frank felt he could be comfortable.

He sat there for the rest of the evening and headed back to Bob's house just before dark.

"I think I've found a place to live," he announced. "Michael Way told me I should stay."

"Mmm," Bob hummed. "He mentioned he was going to introduce himself to you."

"He's an odd one," Frank muttered.

"He knows his brother well, though. If he told you to stay, then Gerard wants you to stay," Bob explained. He paused, then said, carefully, "I would like it if you stayed, Frank."

Frank made his way around the small table and chairs and sat down on his cot. He nodded once. "I'll stay."

***


	3. Undertow [part 2a]

Frank woke when the first beams of morning sunlight hit his face through the window. He rolled out of bed and immediately went to the window to check the state of the ocean and the weather. The tide was low and the waves were coming in calmly, but he could see the promise of a storm growing in the west.

He shuddered and wrapped his arms around his naked torso. He'd made it a habit over the past year to record the state of things in his journal every morning, like he had with his captain's log on his ship. As winter loomed, Frank was already recognizing a pattern in the weather, comparing this year to the last. He expected the storms to get worse in the coming months; both more violent and more frequent, and he wasn't looking forward to it.

He never slept easily during storms. The roar of the thunder and the strong waves crashing on the jetty outside his house kept him up all night, helplessly terrified.

Bob was the only person that knew of Frank's nightmares, having witnessed them firsthand while Frank was living in Bob's house, and he came to visit Frank every morning after the storms, once the weather cleared. Frank always made them some coffee and Bob always told Frank to get some sleep, instead. His visits were comforting, and they calmed Frank down a good deal, but he couldn't help feeling jittery for days after a storm of any great magnitude.

The storm Frank saw on the horizon would probably sweep over the island sometime in the evening, maybe as late as midnight. He retrieved one of Bob's old, soft sweaters and slid his arms into the oversized sleeves. The nervous fluttering in his belly had already started, and Frank was already dreading nightfall.

***

Frank perched on a large rock, well above the crashing waves, and huddled into his coat and scarf. He kept his eyes glued to the horizon, searching for any deviation in the pattern of whitecaps. He'd been watching the angry water for a full day, and he was still on-edge from the violent storm that had blown through the two nights before.

At last, he saw something. A blip on the horizon, a scattered clump of debris nearing the shore off towards Frank's left. Towards the black rocks that haunted Frank's nightmares.

He stood and jumped from rock to rock, leaving the jetty and finally stumbling when he reached the soft sand. He ran straight past his house and into the edge of the forest, dashing through the trees on the hard-packed earth to get to the black rocks in time.

There was driftwood—wreckage—slamming into the rocks when he eventually found the right place. Out of breath and running on adrenaline, Frank scrambled up the rocks and scanned the area for bodies.

It took him an achingly long time, but he finally spotted a man pinned by one of the larger pieces of debris. Frank made his way through the rocks as fast as he could without falling to his own death, and found another body along the way.

This man was obviously dead, and Frank left him lying on the sharp rock that pierced his torso to continue on to the first man, who could possibly have a chance.

Frank grabbed at the man's arms; they were sticky with blood and saltwater, and it was hard to keep his hold. He yanked the man up out of the water. The man didn't respond. Another dead body. He pulled the man out anyway and propped him on the rock, out of the reach of the crashing waves.

There would be more of them, Frank knew it.

***

He patrolled the black rocks well into evening, but then it only became a danger to him as well. He felt his way down, ledge by craggy ledge, and sank to his knees in the welcome softness of the sand.

They were dead, all the men he'd found. Already dead, and there was nothing he could have done. Nothing he could have done.

He found his way back to his house in the feeble moonlight and slept fitfully, awake and staring through the window for most of the night. Frank woke again as soon as the first hint of sunlight reached his eyes. He bundled up again and prepared for another long day of pulling bodies out of the ocean.

The trail of debris from the wrecked ship had worked its way towards Frank's beach; none of it reached as far as his jetty, but pieces of the ship and its cargo washed up on the shore away from the wall of black rocks.

Frank picked through it, searching for anything that might identify the ship, its crew, the purpose of its voyage. Nothing useful was salvaged, and there were no more bodies until the afternoon.

A man and a woman, both clinging to a large piece of what Frank presumed had been the deck, or maybe a thick door. Both were badly wounded at the very least; Frank could see that from shore.

They were far enough away from the black rocks that Frank dared to wade into the sea after them. He stripped off his coat and scarf, leaving them in a bundle on the sand, and threw himself into the shallow water.

His heart was pounding with a mix of fear and sick hope by the time he reached them. Alive, both of them, but unconscious. Frank grabbed the edge of the plank they clung to and dragged it towards shore.

It was a rough journey through the waves and up onto the beach, and when they made it to land, the man stirred awake.

"Hey, hey," Frank said urgently. "Sir, are you okay? What's your name? Are you hurt bad?"

"The ship—" the man mumbled. His voice was thick and waterlogged; he coughed. "Survivors?"

"Just you so far, and the girl. What's your name, sir? How are you hurt?"

"My—my—"

Frank pulled him away from the woman, spread him out flat on the sand, and then it was obvious how he was wounded. There were deep gashes all across his chest, exposing his ribs in some places. Frank held in his gasp of alarm and peeled away the man's shirt.

This man was not going to live, that much was clear. He'd made it to shore only to die as soon as he reached dry land. Frank felt the hot, thick ache of a sob in his chest, but he couldn't show that to the man, not as he was dying in Frank's arms. He needed to be strong, he needed to be the captain again.

Frank pulled the man up a little bit, cradling him in his lap, and covered the wounds with the torn shirt. "What's your name, sir? Tell me about your ship."

"McCoy. Sean McCoy," the man choked out. "I was just—navigator—passage to England—"

"Sean, Sean, it's okay, you're safe here," Frank murmured. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you."

"Survivors?" Sean asked weakly.

"Just the girl." Frank spared her a glance; she was injured, definitely, but her chest was still steadily rising and falling as she breathed. She had time. "I'll help her, I'll take care of her, I promise."

"The storm—too much—capsized—"

"I know. I know," Frank whispered. "I'm sorry."

Sean moved his hand to Frank's arm and squeezed briefly. It took him a few minutes to die, and Frank didn't leave him until there was no breath left in his body. Frank reached up and closed Sean's eyes, then laid him down flat on the sand again.

The woman, lying a few feet away, seemed to be stable. Frank crawled over to her and brushed the dark, matted hair from her face. She was pale and her lips and the skin around her eyes were tinged with blue from the cold. Frank's eyes traveled down to her chest, where her bodice was torn and bloodstained. He quickly peeled back the fabric to see the wound.

There were gashes in her chest, like Sean, but not nearly so deep. The boning of her corset must have protected her a little. Frank skimmed his fingers over the ragged edges of her skin, coming away wet with blood. He moved down to the tatters of her skirt, pushing the shredded pieces off her legs to see the extent of the injuries. She wasn't bleeding anywhere from the waist down, but the outer part of her pale thigh was purple and black with bruises.

She was breathing steadily, and her pulse felt strong, but she wouldn't wake no matter how Frank touched her or called to her. Frank covered her again with the remains of her dress and quickly retrieved his coat and scarf to wrap her exposed skin. He thought it was probably safe to at least carry her to his house and care for her there before going for help.

He scooped her up into his arms and took a few unsteady steps towards the harder ground up by the forest. He made faster progress through the trees, but still moved slowly so as not to injure the woman further. She didn't stir at all while Frank fumbled through his door and laid her down on his bed.

He threw a few logs into his fireplace and stoked the fire into a full roar, then pushed his bed closer to it. Hopefully the warmth would chase away the blue tinge in the woman's skin quickly.

It was different, peeling away her clothes while she slept in his bed; all Frank could think about was what she would think if she woke up now, to his hands on her bare skin.

She didn't wake, though. She didn't stir at all, just continued to breathe steadily. That was a welcome relief, at least. Frank held her wrists gently, feeling the beat of her pulse, and then moved his hands to her face. Her skin was warming up, slowly, and hopefully she wouldn't catch her death from the cold.

Satisfied that she wouldn't die as soon as he turned his back, Frank went to the kitchen and searched through his cabinets for bowls of water and damp cloths to wash away the blood. He tried to keep her modesty intact while he cleaned her up, but he needed to care for her, there was no getting around that.

Frank finally decided to undress her and give her one of his own shirts, one of the large, soft ones he'd kept from Bob, which wouldn't hurt her when she moved. A hot blush crept across his cheeks as his hands swept over her body. He tried not to dwell on those thoughts.

Nothing changed as he wrapped her wounds and redressed her, and nothing changed when he tucked her into his bed. As far as he could tell, she was only sleeping. He didn't know what was keeping her in that state, though; he didn't know if it was something he could fix.

He was afraid to leave her, even to run to Bob's house for help. Her condition was still too uncertain. While she seemed stable, Frank worried that she might slip away if he wasn't watching.

Part of Frank wanted to go back out to the rocks, or at least the jetty, and watch the beach for any more survivors or wreckage from this ship, but he _couldn't leave her_. She was going to live, he would make sure of that. Frank eventually came to the realization that the certainty of her life was worth more to him than the possibility of finding more people that he couldn't save.

It was well over a day and a half since the storm, since Frank presumed that the ship broke apart; he knew that logically, other survivors were very unlikely. It was smart to take his chances and stay with this woman. It was the right choice.

Frank pretended that was the reason he stayed, and not the fact that he just didn't want to leave her to wake up alone.

He positioned himself at the table so he could continue to watch her while he documented the day in his journal. He made note of the men he'd found dead, and Sean McCoy, who had died in his arms. He made note of the woman who lay in his bed, injured and unconscious. It was the longest entry Frank had written since he recounted the circumstances of his own arrival on the island a year ago.

When he finished, Frank thumbed absently through the empty pages of the thick journal. Tomorrow, he would go for help. Decision made, he closed the book and set it aside, resting his pen on the cover.

He took a set of blankets and spread them out on the floor beside the bed, where he could watch the woman sleep. Her face was peaceful and slowly regaining color, though Frank guessed that she would always be very fair-skinned. Her features were relaxed, and Frank believed she really was only sleeping. He settled onto his makeshift bed and watched her well into the night, until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

***

Frank rose early the next morning. Sunlight streamed through the window and fell across the woman's face, but still she slept. Frank checked her pulse again, listened carefully to the sound and rhythm of her breathing, and gave her wounds a careful cleaning with the limited supplies he had. He wrapped her up again in gauze, his shirt, and the blankets, and brought the fire back to life to keep the room warm enough before finally giving in to his own needs and fixing himself breakfast.

He thought that perhaps the smell of food cooking would bring the woman out of whatever kept her asleep, but she didn't even twitch.

Halfway through the day, she still hadn't moved, and Frank was growing restless. As there had been absolutely no change in her condition, he thought it was safe to leave her for the short time it would take to reach Bob's house and come back.

Frank tucked the blankets in around her and gently brushed her hair away from her face. He gave her a long look before finally heading out the door. As soon as he was outside, the sick tension of worry was back, and he ran flat-out all the way to Bob.

He burst through the door without knocking, screaming for Bob, for help, for an answer, anything. The house was empty, and Frank went directly to the cabinet where Bob kept his medical supplies. "Bob! Bob? Where are you, I need help!" he shouted.

Bob came into the house then, face flushed from the cold and from worry. He saw Frank with the medical supplies and instantly ran over to him. "What's happened? Are you okay?"

"A woman—shipwrecked—she won't wake. I need help," Frank replied urgently.

"A woman? Does she need a doctor? What happened?"

"The storm. I don't want to leave her. Please, I don't know what to do."

Bob pushed Frank aside and rifled through the cabinets, pulling out bandages and splints and stuffing them into Frank's arms. "Take these. I'll go to the mainland and get the doctor. What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know," Frank said, already moving towards the door. "Her wounds aren't terrible, I don't think, but she won't wake up. I don't know what's wrong."

Bob came over to Frank and squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. "Go back to her. I'll get Schechter and come to your house as quick as I can."

Frank looked up at Bob and smiled for the first time in days. "Thank you."

***

Doctor Schechter was baffled when he examined the woman. Frank and Bob both watched him closely, waiting for his diagnosis.

"Aside from the obvious wounds," Schechter said slowly, "I can't see anything wrong with her. This might just be her body's way of recovering." He turned to Frank. "God knows you would've healed faster if you had rested well."

"Could it be a sickness? She was in the freezing water for well over a day," Frank replied.

"There may be lingering effects, but she's not feverish, and she's not overly pale."

"She's gotten a lot of her color back," Frank said. "When I pulled her from the water, her lips were blue with cold."

"My advice is to keep her warm," Schechter said firmly. "Keep changing her bandages, cleaning her wounds. They don't look too bad, and they should heal quickly if she doesn't move. If she hasn't woken by tonight, try to get her to drink some water; she's probably dehydrated."

Frank nodded quickly. Schechter gave the woman another brief once-over and shrugged. He handed Frank a bottle of the same pain medication he'd given Frank for his injury.

"There's nothing more I can do, I'm sorry. Call on me again when she wakes and I'll figure out the extent of the damage, but I'm sure she'll need the medicine, at least. Bob, let's go."

"Will you be alright, Frank?" Bob asked.

Frank looked down at the woman's soft features and closed eyelids. He just needed to learn patience. He nodded at Bob and they packed up to leave. Frank didn't see them out. He knelt by the bed and gently touched her cheek. He wanted her to wake up.

***

Frank sat with his journal in his lap, hunched over to read the previous entries in the low light. Mostly, he wrote observations about the weather, a leftover habit from keeping the logbook on his ship. Strong winds had been picking up recently, he'd noticed, and carrying with them storms like the one that had shipwrecked this woman, and like the one the previous year that had shipwrecked him.

He took out his pen and flipped it over his fingers absently, his gaze straying to the woman's profile. Her lips were parted slightly, but lax as they ever were. She didn't look like she was in any pain at all.

Frank set his pen to the paper, trying to force himself to write. He didn't know what to say. His pen, unmoving, made a thick blot and Frank frowned at it. He shifted his hand and tried again.

 _Shipwreck survivor still has not woken. I called Bob Bryar and Dr. Schechter for assistance and advice. Dr. Schechter did not see any evidence of illness or infection, but she hasn't stirred. He left me with medicine for her—she will surely need it. The doctor didn't appear worried about the state of her injuries, but they are quite severe. I fear she won't recover. I can't help it._

 _She sleeps in my bed and doesn't move but to breathe. I've given her clean clothes and a safe, warm place to rest. Tomorrow I've been instructed to try and make her drink. I wish she would wake._

Frank actually had to force himself to stop writing, before he described how knotted her hair was, and how her dress had been torn. How soft her skin was to the touch. How calm she looked, like she was sleeping peacefully.

He capped his pen and closed the journal before the ink had even dried.

***

Frank stayed by the woman's bedside all night, barely sleeping in case she did wake up, and then for most of the morning as well. He pulled up his chair and sat with his legs curled beneath him, cradling a mug of tea in both hands. He kept forgetting to drink it, though, and by noon, it was cold and still almost full.

He tried trickling fresh water between the woman's lips twice, but each time Frank couldn't figure out how to make her swallow. Afraid of accidentally drowning her, Frank set aside the cup of water and traced his wet fingers over her lips instead, in an effort to soothe the dryness there, at least. When he received no reaction, Frank sat back in his chair and gulped some of his own cold tea.

Finally, sometime in the afternoon, she stirred. Frank nearly dropped his mug in surprise. He put it on the floor and slid out of the chair to his knees, his hands hovering above her body, ready to shake her awake or calm her down. He waited.

She moved again, and this time her mouth scrunched up in a frown, and little wrinkles appeared at the corner of her eyes as her face tensed. Frank held his breath, suddenly afraid.

Surprisingly, it was her eyes she regained control over first. She blinked a few times to adjust to the bright, midday sun. Then she licked her chapped lips and opened her mouth to speak.

"Who…" she said. "What…" Her voice was so low and rough from disuse that Frank could barely understand her.

Frank let out the breath he'd been holding, finally letting his hands settle on her bare arms. "It's okay," he murmured. "You're safe. My name's Frank."

"Frank," she said. For a moment, nothing happened, then all at once, she tried to sit up. Frank pressed down on her shoulders firmly to stop her. "Stop," she growled.

"No, no, don't move. You're hurt," Frank explained gently. She stopped struggling. "What's your name, love?"

She gave him a suspicious glare, brown eyes shining with something that didn't look like fever, and Frank held her gaze steadily.

"What's your name?" he asked again. "I told you mine."

"Jamia," she answered shortly. Frank smiled. He liked the sound of that name, the way it felt on his lips as he mouthed it back to her, testing it.

"Do you know where you are, Jamia? Do you remember what happened?"

Jamia stared up at him, her gaze softening but her mouth still tense and suspicious. "No."

Frank sighed. He sat back on his heels and gently stroked his thumb over Jamia's arm. "Your ship," he began carefully. "There was a storm, and she capsized. There were… bodies… I pulled one other man from the water, but…"

"That's it?" she asked. She shifted and pushed up on her elbows, and Frank slid his hand behind her back to support her; she obviously wasn't aware of how badly injured she was. "There's no one else?"

Frank shook his head. He knew exactly how she felt, and he still had no words.

The tension smoothed out of her face and she finally dropped her gaze. She also started to drop down to the bed, but Frank kept his hand firm beneath her and lowered her down those few inches gently.

"Who are you? How did you…"

"I'm Frank Iero, I live on this island. I go out and watch the ocean, especially after storms, in case something happened."

"Why?"

"Because."

Jamia shook her head and raised an eyebrow. "That's not an answer."

Frank looked away. "Just because. It's not important. Jamia, listen. You're healing well so far, but I need to know if you feel anything else that hurts, or if you feel ill."

"No," Jamia answered calmly.

"Okay," Frank said, keeping his voice and his touch soft. He skimmed his hands up from her arm to her ribs, just beneath her breasts. "Is it alright if I…" he asked, trailing off uncertainly.

Jamia's eyes flashed again, like they had before, and Frank took it to mean that she didn't trust him. He held his breath and waited, though, because she didn't say no.

Finally, she nodded. Frank slowly unbuttoned the lower part of her shirt and pushed the halves aside, exposing the stained bandage stretched across her stomach. The sight of the rusty bloodstains made Jamia gasp, and Frank gently touched her arm again, trying to convey comfort.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"Now that I see it," Jamia replied. Her voice was unsteady for the first time, and Frank could see her reconsidering him in her mind.

"The doctor gave me something for the pain," Frank said, reaching for the bottle on the floor. His knuckles brushed the handle of his mug of tea, and he caught Jamia's eyes. "You must be thirsty. Hungry. Dehydrated. You've been asleep for… a long time. Should I make you something? Maybe just some water? You have to drink water."

Jamia shook her head slightly. She was settling back down on the bed and her cheeks were flushed pink. Her eyelids drooped to half-mast.

"You have to drink," Frank said quickly. "And the medicine, it'll help you. Stay awake, just for a minute."

He shifted and got his feet under him but didn't stand up all the way yet. He saw Jamia's grimace of pain and grabbed the bottle of medicine. It took him a moment to uncap it and pour the right amount into the large spoon Schechter had given him, but Jamia accepted it gratefully, not even making a face at the awful smell. Frank supported her with his hand cupped around the back of her head, where her hair was the most tangled and knotted.

"Let me get you some water," he murmured as he laid her back down. "Don't drift off just yet."

She managed to stay awake long enough to drain an entire cupful of fresh water, but that was all. Her eyes slipped closed as suddenly as they'd opened, and Frank even managed to suppress his initial panic that she wouldn't wake up again.

He set the cup on the ground beside his mug, the two handles facing the same direction, and sat cross-legged, leaning back against the chair. He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest until he was confident that she wasn't any worse off than before, and then kept watching her simply because he didn't want to look away.

She hadn't said much, but at least now Frank knew her name.

***

Jamia woke up once more that first day, long enough to drink more water and eat some of the soup broth Frank fed her. She didn't offer any more information about herself or her ship, and Frank didn't pry. He thought aloud about running to fetch the doctor, or at least Bob, who knew more about medicine and anatomy than Frank, but Jamia shook her head.

"I'm alive," she said quietly. "That's enough for now."

"Tomorrow, then," Frank insisted. "It should only take a few hours to get to the mainland and back, and I promised Dr. Schechter that I would tell him when you woke up. He needs to make sure your injuries aren't more serious."

"They aren't," Jamia replied firmly, "and the medication helps with the pain. I'll be fine."

"He'll yell at me if I don't notify him," Frank said, crossing his arms. He knew he sounded stubborn, but he also knew that he was right. She needed to be seen by a proper doctor, while she was conscious. It was just too dangerous, otherwise. He tried this logic on Jamia, and she just scoffed.

"It's not too dangerous. I'll be fine."

Frank shrugged. Nothing she said would change the fact that he was going to bring the doctor in tomorrow.

Jamia fell back asleep not long after the conversation devolved, and she slept soundly through the night. Frank stayed up, watching her. He couldn't help it. In the morning, he gently shook Jamia's shoulder to rouse her. She didn't wake completely, and Frank was glad.

"I'm going to see Bob," he murmured, "to get the doctor. I'll be back soon, just don't try to move. There's water here, by the bed, if you wake up thirsty."

Jamia hummed and closed her eyes again. Frank stood by the bed, struck dumb by the sight of her, for several minutes before finally gathering his coat and scarf and running to Bob's house.

A few hours later, when Bob and Schechter finally knocked on the door, Jamia was still asleep. Frank leapt from his chair and opened it quickly, holding a finger to his lips.

"She's sleeping," he whispered unnecessarily.

"I need to see her when she's awake," Schechter replied in an exasperated tone at normal volume. Frank winced and nodded, because Schechter did have a point.

He motioned for them to follow him inside and they gathered around Jamia's bed. Frank sank to his knees and touched her shoulder.

"Jamia," he said quietly. "Jamia, the doctor's here, you need to wake up."

She didn't move.

Bob tapped Frank and asked, "Have you woken her up before?"

"Yes, kind of," Frank hedged. "I've mostly been letting her sleep. Is that wrong?"

"No, no," Schechter said. "It's just inconvenient that she doesn't wake up on command, because I really do need to examine her."

"Jamia," Frank tried again. "Jamia, love, wake up." He jostled her shoulder again, just slightly, but it was finally enough to make her open her eyes.

She instantly went on the alert when she saw the two strangers crowded around her bedside, but Frank caught her eye and nodded, and she calmed down. Bob and the doctor introduced themselves, and Schechter instructed Bob and Frank to leave the room while he changed Jamia's bandages and asked her questions about her health and her history.

They moved outside, huddled in the lee of the house, until Schechter came out, carrying his medical bag. Frank, already twitchy from leaving Jamia with a relative stranger, jumped away from his spot on the wall.

"Is she—"

"She's sleeping," Schechter answered calmly. "I stitched up the gashes in her side, and gave her a new bandage, but there doesn't seem to be anything else wrong."

"Why is she sleeping so much?" Frank asked, worrying the hem of his jacket sleeves with both hands.

Bob nudged him. "You did that, too," he said.

"She'll be fine," Schechter added. "Keep her warm, fed, hydrated, and clean. She's healing perfectly, Frank, this is probably just her way of dealing with whatever's happened to her. It's okay. Trust me."

Frank looked from Schechter to Bob; Bob nodded, and Frank looked back at the doctor.

"Okay," he eventually replied. "Can I go back in, now?"

***

Frank sat by Jamia for most of the day. He didn't really have much else to do; he usually filled his days with mindless chores and going out around the island, and on occasion he stopped in to see Bob or the Ways. Mostly, Frank went out and watched the water and wrote in his journal. He felt like a sentinel, a lot of the time, standing guard over the island and reaching out to those he saw.

Like Jamia.

She was his first survivor.

Frank curled up in the chair by the bed, cheek pillowed on his knee. He was alone with his thoughts, like always, but at least there was the sound of another person's breathing to fill the silence. Even Jamia's unconscious presence was enough to stave away the loneliness of Frank's life on the island.

He lost track of time, watching her sleep. Sometime in the evening, she started to shift and grimace, and Frank touched her shoulder to wake her. She opened her eyes and looked right up at him.

"Do you just sit here and watch me?" she asked in a rough voice.

Frank opened his mouth to reply, but Jamia interrupted him with a groan. "Are you okay?" he asked instead. "Do you need the medicine?"

"Yes," she said. She tried to sit up on her own, but that involved twisting her torso and she yelped when she moved.

"What is it? What happened?" he asked urgently.

"Nothing," she replied, waving him off. "Just help me?"

Frank easily lifted her into an upright position, resting his hand against her back a little longer than strictly necessary. Just to be sure, he told himself. He poured out a spoonful of the foul liquid and held it to Jamia's lips, and she moved her hand to his wrist, to steady the spoon.

When she finished, Frank laid her back down. She grumbled about not being able to turn onto her side, but Frank gave her a stern look and she merely sighed and let it go. Once Jamia settled on the bed, Frank sat back in his chair.

"Frank, don't just sit there. I don't need you to watch me."

"I don't know what else to do," he admitted after a moment. He wanted to be _helpful_.

"Well, what do you normally do?"

"Nothing important," Frank answered softly.

Jamia sighed again and closed her eyes, accepting defeat.

"I write in my journal every day," Frank offered. Jamia opened her eyes again.

"Can I see?"

Frank nodded and retrieved the leather-bound book. He'd filled almost half the pages since Bob bought it for him over a year ago, and the leather was holding up well even in the salty island air. The pages warped just slightly in the damp, and Frank found it oddly comforting. He handed Jamia the journal.

She didn't open it. She stroked the spine with her thumb, the cracks in the leather with the very tips of her fingers. "It's beautiful," she murmured. "What do you write?"

"Uh, mostly the weather?" Frank said. He wasn't sure why he was nervous; he was blushing like a fool for no apparent reason. "It's just habit."

"Habit?" Jamia prompted. Her voice was gentle, and she gave Frank an encouraging glance. She was nursing along this conversation, he realized. She was giving him something to do. It was strange; he felt so out of practice.

"I was captain of a ship," Frank finally answered. "I kept a logbook of the weather conditions, our headings, anything of note that happened during the day. It was something my father taught me, when he was captain. I wish I still had it; I wrote things I wanted to remember in there. I lost it when—"

Jamia handed the journal back to him and Frank looked down at it, avoiding her sharp, calculating gaze. She didn't need to prompt him again for Frank to know she wanted the rest of the story.

"I know how you feel, being the only one left alive," he began in a low voice. "I was shipwrecked here just over a year ago. I lost… _everything_ in that storm."

When he looked up from his lap, Jamia's expression was compassionate. She encouraged him on without even speaking.

"All my men are dead; my ship's sunk to the bottom of the ocean. The only thing I saved was my father's pocket watch, and it doesn't even work now." He pulled his hand away from the chain around his neck; he hadn't even realized he'd been touching it.

"So why are you here?" Jamia asked gently. Frank could tell that she wasn't just prodding for information; she was genuinely curious.

"I had no reason to leave," Frank shrugged. "I didn't want the same thing to happen to anyone else, so I watch. And it's a good thing, too."

Jamia smiled briefly. "It is indeed," she replied. Her grin faded. The medicine was taking effect; Jamia would be asleep within minutes.

"I'm sorry, Frank," she murmured as her eyelids drooped.

They lost eye contact. Frank sighed and splayed his hands over the journal, and didn't move from his chair.

***

Over the next few days, Jamia started staying awake for longer periods of time. Frank didn't let her move very much, and she didn't fight him on it, so he was sure her injuries were still painful. Frank made meals for them both and Jamia talked to him almost constantly. Frank hadn't realized how much he missed the sound of idle conversation.

In all their conversations, though, Jamia never touched on anything serious. Finally, Frank had to ask.

"Jamia, is there anyone I should contact for you?" She shook her head, but Frank pressed on. "Family? Anyone for the people on your ship?"

"Frank," she interrupted, "I didn't know them. I was traveling alone; it was early into the voyage."

"Where were you going?" Frank asked. "Surely someone's expecting you."

"There's no one," Jamia insisted. "Just drop it."

Frank sighed. "You can stay here as long as you want."

"Like you did?" she asked knowingly.

"I didn't see a reason to leave. It's not like I can just magic a ship and a crew out of thin air."

"But you can manage a house."

"Gerard helped me build this house. Gerard and Bob."

"Gerard?"

Frank realized quite suddenly that nobody had told her about Gerard and his family. He smiled. "Gerard Way. You'll meet him soon. Bob probably already told him about you. He's…" Frank trailed off. There weren't words to describe Gerard or his wife adequately. Jamia looked politely curious, so Frank finished his sentence with "…a good man. He's a very good man. He's the reason I'm still on this island. I don't really work for him like Bob does, but… he still lets me stay."

Frank cocked his head consideringly at her. He already knew he didn't want her to leave, at least not anytime soon. "Who were you, before?" he asked.

Jamia was quiet for a long moment. "I was a schoolteacher," she said at last.

Grinning, Frank asked, "Did everyone call you Miss Nestor or ma'am?"

"They would have," she answered. She returned his smile, but it was sort of sad. "I never got the chance to teach anyone. I'd just gotten out of school. I didn't even have a job."

"No job, no one expecting you—"

"No husband," she interjected candidly. "No home. I was going to start fresh."

Frank very deliberately closed off his expression from her. He couldn't voice his thoughts, though they were almost deafening inside his mind. _Stay with me, stay with me_. He took a breath and said, "Perhaps Gerard will have something for you. When you're well, you'll meet him."

She gave him a quick flash of a smile. "I look forward to it."

***

The week passed and Jamia was recovering well. Before Frank was fully comfortable with it, she was up and out of bed. Her dress and corset were both a dead loss, damaged beyond repair, but she was small enough to fit into Frank's clothes, most of which were hand-me-downs from Bob anyway.

She got tired quickly, but she insisted on helping Frank around the house. She made dinner for them each night and cleaned up after, even when Frank protested.

"I can't just sit around and let you wait on me, Frank," she said, every single time. "Don't worry. You can have most of the chores."

He was glad to take them, though. From his own experience, he knew sitting idle and feeling useless was tough, but he couldn't help wanting to take care of her. He _liked_ taking care of her.

***

Frank sat on the floor beside the fireplace, arms wrapped around his knees, while Jamia puttered around, dowsing the lights on her way to bed. She paused as she passed Frank, close enough for Frank to feel the air shift as she walked by, but Frank didn't turn around. He stared into the dying fire. It needed another log; the crackling flames had almost petered out.

"Are you going to bed?" she asked softly. Her fingers slid briefly over Frank's bare shoulder, like she was trying to bring him out of a daze.

He leaned toward the touch automatically, but ignored her question. The rain on the windows nearly drowned out her voice anyway, and it was easy to pretend he hadn't heard her.

"Frank—" she said, louder.

"Go to bed," he cut her off sharply. She withdrew her hand. Frank swayed towards her, following her for a fraction of a second before he caught himself. He hunched over his knees and focused on the warmth of the fire instead. It barely put a dent in the chill the rain brought.

Frank listened to Jamia climb onto the mattress and rearrange the blankets and pillows, quiet rustles of fabric beneath the roar of the rain. He stared at the fire until it couldn't even be called a fire anymore. The embers were glowing red, but the flames had died and there was no sound left but the rain.

The rain and, quite suddenly, the thunder. It took Frank by surprise and he flinched, digging his fingers into his own flesh. He didn't want to be afraid. He hoped Jamia was asleep, though how she could sleep through this, Frank hadn't a clue. He rocked back and forth a few times to shift his body away from the window, closer to the fireplace.

"What's wrong?" Jamia asked. "Do you need another blanket?"

Frank shook his head.

"Is it the storm?" Her voice was gentle, but the question was blunt and Frank turned his head so she couldn't see his face.

"I'm not scared," he insisted weakly.

"What's wrong, Frank?"

"Nothing."

"You're practically hyperventilating, Frank," she replied carefully. "Tell me what's wrong."

"It's okay, I'll be fine in the morning," Frank said stiffly. A flash of lightning followed by a loud clap of thunder made Frank suck in a sharp breath.

"I want you to be fine now." Frank heard her sit up, heard her feet brush the floor.

"It doesn't matter."

She was kneeling beside him in seconds, her arm heavy and warm across his shoulders. "Frankie, come lie down," she whispered, close enough that her breath tickled Frank's ear. He closed his eyes, but it didn't block out the bright flash of lightning. Jamia took his arm firmly and guided him to his feet, and then towards the bed.

"What are you—" he muttered, stumbling along at her side.

"Shh. Lie down." She pushed him down to the bed, ignoring his feeble protests, and slid beneath the blankets next to him. He tensed and shied away from her as much as he could on the small bed, but she just wrapped her arms around him and pressed herself against his back from shoulder to thigh.

"Jamia," he whispered harshly, reaching back with one hand in an attempt to put some space between them. He was distracted by another deafening rumble of thunder, and he knew she could feel the involuntary shudder than ran through his body.

"Relax. Breathe, Frank," she murmured. Her lips touched the back of his neck. Her breath was hot on his skin, and he shivered for an entirely different reason.

Jamia slid her hand down Frank's arm, pressing firmly to ease the tension in his muscles. Frank's shoulders relaxed by degrees, and he finally leaned back against her. Her whole body was warm and soft and comforting, and Frank exhaled loudly.

"Breathe," she reminded him gently. "Can you tell me, is it the thunder?"

"I don't know," Frank hedged. He followed her guidance, breathing in and out in tandem with her. His head felt a little clearer. "I can't help it."

"Is it your ship? Is it that night?" Her hand curved around Frank's side, stroking in slow circles over his stomach, dipping low enough to brush the waistband of Frank's pants. His skin tingled wherever her fingers touched.

"The same thing happened to you," Frank whispered. "You understand, don't you?" She didn't answer. Lightning flashed; Frank clenched his eyes shut and concentrated hard on relaxing again, following Jamia's example of deep, slow breaths. He finally turned his head, though not enough to face her, and asked, "Why aren't you afraid?"

She waited several long moments before replying, but Frank didn't interrupt. She was going to reply; he could feel it. He curled his body into the fetal position and her legs followed as she fitted herself against him again.

"You lived at sea," she murmured. "This wasn't supposed to happen to you. But I didn't know any better."

"What do you mean?"

"You've never experienced something so horrible, have you?" she asked gently, and Frank shook his head. "It didn't fit into your world. But I didn't know your world before I stepped on that ship. I didn't know this wasn't normal."

She wrapped herself around him, holding him tightly with her lips pressed to the skin beneath his ear. "It's okay to be frightened, Frank."

"But—"

"Nothing can hurt you here," she continued. "You're not on a ship. You're not in that world. This one's different."

Frank heard what Jamia wasn't saying: she knew this world better than he did. She was telling him he was safe, and he was going to believe her. He forced his muscles to relax and he sank into her embrace.

She kept her arms tight over him, but everywhere else she was soft—her breasts pressed against his back, her thighs spooned behind his own. He took a few deep breaths, feeling the tension leave him. Almost against his will, he was getting sleepy. The last thing he was aware of was the gentle touch of Jamia's lips on the back of his neck.

***

When Frank woke, sunlight was streaming in through the window and cutting across his face. It was warm and bright, the kind of sunlight that follows heavy clouds. That wasn't what woke him, though; a sharp knock sounded at the door, for the second time. Beside him, Jamia stirred and blinked awake.

Frank started to move, to extract himself from Jamia's arms and answer the door, but Jamia put her hand gently on his arm.

"Shh, go back to sleep; I'll get it." Before Frank could protest, Jamia slid out of bed and padded across the room. A brief chill swept over Frank's body in her absence and he tugged the blankets tighter around him. He was still exhausted. He closed his eyes again and listened to Jamia open the door and greet Bob warmly.

"Where's Frank?" Bob asked. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine. He's sleeping," Jamia replied quietly. Frank heard the door squeak as she opened it wider. "Would you like to come in? I can wake him if you want to talk."

"No, no," Bob answered. "I just came to check on him. He's never slept through a storm like that."

Frank could hear the faint note of worry in Bob's voice, and apparently Jamia could too, because she said, "He's okay, Bob. Really."

Bob sounded like he was smiling when he said, "Thank you, Jamia." They were quiet for a moment, then Jamia said, "Of course."

Reassured, Bob said his goodbyes, asking Jamia to tell Frank he stopped by, and left. Jamia closed the door but didn't return to bed. Frank turned over to face the room and opened his eyes again.

"Jamia?" he asked carefully. She smiled at him, bright as the sun outside, and came to stand by the bed. Frank pushed open the blanket and invited her in again, and she didn't hesitate.

She snuggled in against him, their knees pressed together and her arm around his waist. She raised her eyebrows at him, questioning.

"He's right," Frank whispered. They were close enough that he could feel her breath on his face. "I think you might be magic."

A smile flashed across Jamia's face and then she asked, "Are you really okay?"

Frank took a moment to actually think about it, then nodded. "I think I am. Thank you, Jamia. I don't even know what you did, but thank you."

She didn't reply. Her face softened into an easy smile, but her eyes still looked unsure. Frank sighed and curled into her, tentatively sliding his arm over her waist to hold her like she held him. He could feel the edge of the bandage around her torso through her shirt. He breathed in the warmth of her skin, surrounding him and protecting him.

"I have to go out there," he whispered. "I have to make sure."

"Make sure of what?" she asked, her voice equally soft.

"Make sure there's no wreckage. That's how I found you," he replied. Her arm tightened around him for a moment, and then she got out of bed again, leaving Frank adrift.

"I'll make you some breakfast, then," she said simply.

***


	4. Undertow [part 2b]

A few days later, Gerard appeared at the door. Jamia was the one who answered it. Frank looked over from across the room and saw her pause, and Gerard's mouth was quirked up in a small smile.

"You must be Gerard Way," Jamia said after a few seconds. Gerard's smile widened and he held out his hand to her. "Frank's told me about you."

"Jamia Nestor, right? It's great to finally meet you."

Jamia stepped aside and invited Gerard in, and Frank went over to them. Gerard pulled him into a warm embrace that was far too short for Frank's taste. Gerard's presence was almost as soothing as Jamia's was getting to be.

Frank hadn't seen Gerard in several weeks—he tried to think back and felt guilty when he realized it had actually been over two months—and Gerard looked really good. His black hair was shorter again, and his tie and waistcoat were both neat and clean. Frank wondered if he dressed up to meet Jamia and make a good impression.

"Frankie, it's good to see you," he said happily. He cocked his head toward Jamia and said, "So I heard you rescued this beautiful lady from certain death. You're a hero. I should write a book about you."

"Don't be dramatic," Frank muttered.

"He's not," Jamia broke in with an easy smile. "You're my hero."

Frank could tell she was teasing, playing into Gerard's game, but he felt a flush rising on his cheeks anyway. He turned away and started making coffee—he didn't have to ask to know Gerard wanted coffee. It was one of the first things Frank had learned about Gerard.

Gerard was at ease in Frank's house; he moved to a chair at the table without being prompted and gestured for Jamia to sit across from him. He struck up a conversation with her that Frank barely paid attention to; social niceties and small talk, mostly.

Frank watched them silently, removing himself from the visit and giving them a chance to meet each other. Jamia smile was bright and happy, and she responded to Gerard's gentle teasing like it was second nature to her. Frank remembered doing that himself, when he first met Gerard, and he didn't have to work very hard to stamp down his jealousy. Gerard was easy to talk to and get along with. It was a talent Frank had never mastered.

He watched them talk without tuning into the conversation at all until he heard his name.

"Frank was the same," Gerard was saying. "It took him a while to get back on his feet, but obviously he's recovered. He was quiet for a long time, though; much longer than you."

"He lost more than I did," Jamia replied quietly. Frank turned his back on them, focused on the kettle of boiling water and measuring the coffee grounds.

"What did you lose?" Gerard asked gently. He was good at that, getting people to tell him painful things. As much as he loved to talk, he was a remarkably good listener.

Jamia had obviously fallen under his spell, because she answered him without much hesitation. "The crew wanted us to stay in our quarters, but… something happened and the ship started taking on water. It was faster than I thought it would be. I went up to the top deck with a couple of the other passengers. Something fell; I don't remember what it was. It was sharp and… heavy; it trapped us.

"One of them men tried to push me out of the way, but it just fell on us and held us there, against one of the doors. I couldn't move, and he was worse off."

"What was his name?" Frank asked. His fingers were clenching unconsciously around the knob on one of the cabinets.

"Sean, I think," Jamia said. "The door was torn off the wall and we just clung to it, both of us. Then that was it, the ship was down and we were in the water. I don't remember what happened after that."

"He spoke to me," Frank said. He heard one of them stand up and come over to him; it was Gerard. He put his hand on Frank's arm and carefully turned him around and brought him to the table. Gerard sat Frank down in his own chair and remained standing beside him.

"Before I pulled you from the water," Frank continued, not meeting Jamia's eyes. "He was badly injured. I tried to help him, but—"

"Frank," Gerard murmured. "You didn't fail. He didn't die because of you."

"I couldn't save him."

"You saved me," Jamia countered.

"The coffee—" Frank said and stood abruptly, pulling away from Gerard's hands. The chair creaked as Gerard sat down again.

"I'm glad you're here, Jamia," Gerard said quietly. Frank had to strain to hear him. "He's been reclusive, and I know that's not him. I think he needs you."

Frank busied himself with pouring the coffee and when he returned to the table with the steaming mugs, he forced a bright smile and said to Gerard, "Tell us what you've been working on."

Gerard accepted the change in topic and immediately launched into a description of his wife's illustrations. He explained to Jamia that they wrote children's books together and Jamia lit up excitedly. She said that she was going to be a schoolteacher, and that she was interested in seeing his and Lindsey's picture books.

"Ah, a schoolteacher, no wonder you're so clever," Gerard said. "Perhaps you and Frank would join me and Lindsey for dinner one night? I know my wife has been dying to see you again, Frank, and Jamia, you could meet her and my little one. She's almost two."

"Such a sweet age," Jamia replied warmly. "I'd love to come over, of course."

"Maybe one night this week?" Gerard asked, directing his question at Frank. Jamia glanced over at him too, and Frank couldn't refuse. He nodded and gave them a weak smile.

"I'll invite Bob as well, we could make a party out of it. Lindsey loves having bonfires on our beach."

"I can't wait," Jamia said.

"Give my best to Bob," Frank added.

"Certainly, certainly. I'm actually headed there now; he's taking me to a meeting with a publisher on the mainland. So, uh." He tapped the pocket in his waistcoat where his pocket watch hid. "Yes, well, I should go, before I make myself late."

"Of course," Frank said. He herded Gerard towards the door. "Thanks for stopping by."

Gerard stopped in the doorway and turned around to face Frank. He leaned close. "It's good to see you, Frank," he murmured in a very deliberate voice. "Don't hide yourself away."

Frank didn't know what Gerard meant by that, if he was being literal or metaphorical. He nodded anyway and waved goodbye when Gerard was partway down the path. Jamia joined him at the door and rested her hand at the small of his back.

"He's a lovely person," she whispered.

"Yeah, he is," Frank agreed. Jamia rubbed her hand in a circle on his back. "I'm sorry I didn't introduce you to him sooner."

"No harm done. Are we really going to the Ways' house this week? You didn't seem all that enthusiastic."

"Oh. Oh yes, of course, I'm sorry. I just. He confuses me sometimes. Of course we'll go."

"Was it the things he said?" she asked. "About that man who died?"

Frank started to shake his head but she gave him a stern look and he stopped short. "I should've been able to save more than one person."

"It's remarkable that you saved one person," she countered. "You are my hero, you know. You saved my life. You tried to save others, and that's heroic, Frank. All that matters is that you tried."

Frank shook his head and moved away from her to sit on the floor in front of the fire. She pulled up a chair and sat near him, close enough that her knee nudged his shoulder. He leaned against her.

"Will you tell me your story, now that you know mine?" she murmured, reaching down and petting the top of his head.

"I don't like thinking about it," he answered.

"But it's obviously bothering you."

"It always bothers me. Of course it does."

"I think that talking about it will help you," she said gently.

Frank sighed, but he recognized the truth in her words. He didn't know where to begin, and he said as much to Jamia.

"Tell me about your ship."

"It was my father's," Frank replied almost immediately. He pulled the pocket watch out from beneath his shirt and stroked the damaged face with his thumb. "I grew up there. My grandfather named her Pencey, and he never told anyone why. Not even my father knew. I didn't stay long with my mother; just until I was… eight, I think. She died not long after that, and then I had no reason to go back to land."

"You've lived on the ship your whole life since then?"

"I loved it. It was like the storybooks my father read to me, about pirates and adventurers. The kind of stories Gerard Way writes. Matt and I would stay up late and sneak out to look at the stars."

"Who is Matt?"

"He's my—he was my best friend." Frank swallowed thickly. "He was my age, his father worked for my father. The crew always said we were thick as thieves. He was my first mate, when my father retired."

"Tell me more about him." Jamia petted his head some more, gently stroking patterns on his scalp, fingers brushing through the tangles in his hair. Frank leaned against her legs and closed his eyes, tilting his head back to rest against her knees.

"When we were teenagers, we slept out on the deck a lot, jackets rolled up beneath our heads for pillows. There's so many stars on the ocean, nothing blocking the view."

Frank imagined himself back there now, feeling the gentle sway of the ship beneath his body. Matt's warmth radiating at him from a few inches away. They shared Frank's coat as a pillow; Matthew's was stretched over them both to keep them warm.

"His father told us the stories of all the constellations," Frank murmured, remembering. "We'd find them and make up new ones. Except Andromeda, we never changed her story."

"What story is that?"

Frank twisted up and opened his eyes in surprise. "You don't know it?"

Jamia shook her head, smiling softly. "I teach kids to read and write, Frank. I didn't exactly specialize in ancient mythology."

"Andromeda was my favorite," Frank said, settling back into place at Jamia's feet. She combed her fingers through his hair again.

"Her mother, Cassiopeia, was kind of stuck-up and annoying, so Poseidon, the god of the sea, punished her by taking her daughter and chaining her to a rock in the middle of the ocean, as a sacrifice to a sea monster.

"Then Perseus comes along and sees her there, naked and tied up amidst the crashing waves, and he rescues her from the sea monster. And he marries her, and they have a lot of kids, and… yeah, then when she died, the goddess Athena put her up in the sky among the stars."

"That's a nice story," Jamia replied. "What are the ones you made up with your friend?"

"I don't know, there were so many. We'd stay out there all night, just talking, and no one ever scolded us for it. It was just something we did, you know? We kept on even after I became captain and he became my first mate."

"He was your closest friend," Jamia said. Frank nodded. "You lost him in that storm, didn't you?"

"I lost everyone."

"But it's him that you remember."

"He…" Frank took a deep breath and leaned forward, curling in on himself, taking himself out of Jamia's hands. "He drowned before my eyes. I was—I was trapped, and I couldn't reach him in time. I _tried_ , I did."

"Of course you did, Frank," Jamia said, sliding out of her chair to wrap her arms around him. "It's not your fault that he died."

"I was the captain. I shouldn't have put him in that situation."

"What other situation was there?"

"I don't know, just—not _that_."

"Exactly, Frank. There was nothing you could have done."

"Why did I survive, then? Why am I more important than he was?" Frank asked desperately. "I should have died with my crew."

"Don't say that—"

"It's true. A captain goes down with his ship; it's honorable to die that way. But I fucking survived."

"It's not fair."

"No, it's not. I shouldn't be alone. I don't know how to start over, I never learned how to—to make friends, to get close to people. I'm fucking scared of them. I'm not like you."

"You're not alone. Frank, you've already started over. You have friends here. Bob and Gerard, they care about you, and you care about them. It's not something you need to work at, it just happens."

"They're not the same," Frank said miserably.

"Of course not," Jamia agreed. "No one can replace the ones you lost. You grew up with Matt, and you can't relive that with someone else. But they are your friends, and you're not alone."

Frank rested his forehead on his knees to hide his face and admitted, softly, "I feel alone."

Jamia wrapped her arms tighter around him and squeezed until Frank couldn't think about the tears prickling behind his eyes. All he could feel was her body around him, holding him. He felt her lips against his cheek.

"You're not alone, Frank."

He kept his face hidden so she wouldn't hear him when he whispered, "I don't want to lose you too."

She held him until the tension and grief drained out of him. It slid away slowly, like it was a liquid dripping off his body, and eventually Frank could breathe again without shaking. Jamia put him to bed after that and Frank sank into a deep, exhausted sleep. He didn't dream, and he was thankful.

***

Jamia followed him out the next day. Frank had planned to go all the way to the black rocks after their whole conversation about Matt, but since Jamia insisted on accompanying him, he decided to shorten his trip. He took her out along the jetty instead, moving slowly and helping her navigate the rocks so as not to aggravate her injuries.

They finally settled down on a large, smooth boulder, the wind whipping at their clothes and hair. Frank slipped automatically into his usual zone of scanning the waves, even with Jamia beside him.

Eventually she broke the silence. "What are you looking for?" she asked. Her voice was almost carried away by the wind.

Frank exhaled slowly and shook his head. "I don't know anymore."

Jamia scooted closer to him and laid her arm over his shoulder. He leaned against her, careful of his sharp elbows around her bandaged torso. The fluttery tension in the pit of his stomach settled a little bit.

After only a few minutes of sitting beside Jamia on the rock, Frank never wanted to give up the feel of her body pressed up against him. He slid his arm beneath hers, curling it low around her waist. His fingertips brushed the edge of the bandage beneath her shirt.

She was recovering well, and so quickly. In no time, Jamia would be fully healed and ready to move on, start living her life again. Frank selfishly dreaded that day. He pressed his fingers to her hip and she squeezed her arm around him tighter in response.

***

Jamia convinced him to visit the Ways only two days later. She didn't even have to try very hard; Frank couldn't resist her, and he didn't want to resist Gerard's invitation. They left the house early in the afternoon, walking along the beach to Bob's house, and then the three of them continued on the well-worn path to the estate.

Lindsey answered the door, a bright purple smear of paint on her cheek. She wore a paint-splattered smock, and there were tiny handprints all over it. She beamed at them but refrained from hugging them, though she did kiss them all on the cheek, bouncing a little in excitement.

"I'm teaching Bandit how to paint," she said cheerfully. "I'll tell Gerard you're here and wash up. Come in, come in."

Lindsey disappeared again, and Bob, at home in the Ways' house, led the way through to the parlor. Jamia and Bob both sat down on the couch to wait, but Frank paced the room, studying the paintings that lined the walls.

Gerard surprised Frank when he appeared at Frank's side, studying Frank like Frank was studying the pictures. Frank jumped when he noticed Gerard standing so close to him, and Gerard just smiled kindly. "It's nice to see you, Frankie," he said.

"I brought—" Frank began, turning on his heel to gesture to Bob and Jamia.

"I noticed," Gerard replied. He moved forward and held out his hand—colorfully paint-stained, though not nearly as messy as Lindsey's had been—to help Jamia to her feet. "You're looking lovely tonight, Jamia."

He then moved to Bob and hugged him briefly. "I know you only came to see my girl," he teased. "When Lindsey brings her down we can start dinner."

While Lindsey and Bandit were still cleaning up, Gerard lead Jamia, Bob, and Frank around the house, giving Jamia a much more condensed version of the tour he'd given Frank. Frank spent a little more time looking at the art on the walls; he didn't know much about art, and he knew even less about Gerard and Lindsey, but he thought he could pick out whose pieces were whose.

They ended the tour at the kitchen, just as Lindsey was coming in as well. She handed Bandit off to Bob, who made a ridiculous face to make her giggle.

"Jamia!" Lindsey said breathlessly. "I've heard a fair bit about you from Gee, but he did you no justice." She extended her hands and pulled Jamia in to kiss her cheek and greet her properly. "It's so nice to meet you, finally. And to see you again, Frank," she added, turning her head to catch Frank's eye.

Frank gave Gerard a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," he said quietly, but Gerard waved him off.

"No apologies necessary. I know what it's like to want to hide from the world. Why do you think I live on an island?"

Jamia went over to Bob and touched the little girl's dark, curly hair. "And who is this little one?" she asked.

"Lady B, this is Jamia," Bob said gently. "Want to say hello?"

Frank watched curiously as Bandit warily eyed Jamia and clung onto Bob's neck. Jamia didn't try to pressure her to say anything; she looked like she knew how to handle children. Bandit finally shook her head and hid her face shyly. Jamia grinned.

"Oh, sweetie," she murmured. "When you're ready."

"Wanna play, Bob," Bandit whispered, lifting her hands and cupping them around Bob's ear.

"What do you want to play, Bumble Bee?"

"There's a toy box in the playroom," Gerard suggested. "We can call you when dinner's ready."

Lindsey gave Bandit a kiss on the forehead as they passed by, then went over to stand by her husband. Jamia gravitated to Frank's side and he almost reached out to take her hand, to make them a mirror image of Gerard and Lindsey, but he caught himself just in time. She rested her hand at the small of his back, though, which made Frank smile.

"Frank, how are you with slicing bread?" Gerard asked. He circled around the table to where ingredients were lying out on the counter. "I could use some help."

It was easy to slip into a comfortable routine, cooking dinner with Gerard while Lindsey and Jamia chatted behind them. He only listened to their conversation with half an ear, focusing instead on slicing bread, chopping onions, doing whatever mindless task Gerard gave him.

It was an utterly domestic tableau, one Frank imagined was in all the storybooks, but one he'd never actually experienced. Not even at his own house, with Jamia living with him, did they have this level of domesticity. He suddenly found himself craving a life like this.

Eventually, Frank finished preparing dinner and turned around to pay more attention to Lindsey while Gerard cleaned up. She was explaining something about her sewing room, making a Halloween costume for her daughter.

"I couldn't help but notice," Lindsey said, nodding to Jamia's clothes. Jamia was wearing Frank's clothes, a pair of his trousers and one of his loosest shirts. She plucked at the fabric and laughed.

"Yes, well, I've obviously not been keeping up with the current fashions," she joked.

"You're welcome to any of the fabric or patterns I have, if you make your own clothes. Or I could make you something! You'd look lovely in dark blue, or maybe green. I think I have some patterned fabric—I wonder if it'll be enough for a full skirt, or if—"

"Linds," Gerard interrupted gently. He was smiling, gazing at her with an amused expression on his face. Lindsey caught his eye and shook her head, her fingers coming up to touch her forehead in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," she said sheepishly. "I get a little caught up."

Jamia laughed and waved away the awkward pause with a flick of her hand. "I'd love to see your sewing room," she said. "Maybe we can figure something out together."

They called Bob and the little girl, now calling herself a princess and Bob her knight, back in once dinner was finished. Gerard mainly focused on cutting Bandit's food into tiny pieces and making sure she ate, rather than eating himself, but he remained an active participant in the conversation.

Frank gave in to being overwhelmed. He ate quietly, laughing along with the others when they did, and eventually sat back to watch the scene unfold. He'd never experienced something quite like this. Certainly not with his crew or his own family, while they were alive, and he'd never stayed on shore long enough to make these kinds of friends. He let the gentle rise and fall of the others' voices wash over him like water and realized he felt more at home than he had in a long time.

During a lull in the conversation, Bob noticed the time and told them quite firmly that he needed to get back home. Bandit was upset at his departure, of course, but it was her bedtime anyway, and Lindsey disappeared with her upstairs.

When she came back, Gerard and Jamia were deep into a discussion of reading material for children Bandit's age and a little older. Gerard soaked up Jamia's every word. Frank felt a surge of pride for Jamia, though he had no right to be proud of her. She had experience on her side, experience with children and experience with her own education, and Frank had no part in that.

"What's this about a spelling book?" Lindsey asked as she came into the room. She perched on the arm of Gerard's chair and Gerard reached around to lay a hand on her back. Frank's fingers itched to touch Jamia.

"It's just something I was considering for younger classes, when they're just learning to read," Jamia explained.

"Jamia's a schoolteacher," Gerard added, looking up at his wife. Lindsey's eyebrows shot up.

"Oh, really?" Her gaze flicked from Jamia to Frank and back again. "What are your plans for… Well, I mean, do you have plans?"

"You mean for leaving here?" Jamia asked slyly. Frank looked over at her and bit the inside of his cheek.

"I think you already know what I'm going to ask," Lindsey replied, laughing when Gerard rolled his eyes.

Jamia nodded and flashed a quick smile in Frank's direction. "I'm not entirely certain yet, what my plans are," she said. "It depends."

Frank managed to rip his gaze away from her and his eyes fell on Gerard instead, who, he was surprised to find, was staring back at him with a calculating expression. Frank's eyebrows drew in as he frowned, questioning, but Gerard just grinned and turned his attention back to Jamia. Frank found it hard to resist doing the same.

"Well, you should know, Jamia," he began, and Frank could hear the soft rustle of his hand stroking up and down Lindsey's back, "you'll always have a place here, and a job, if you so desire."

Frank held his breath, waiting for Jamia's answer, but she didn't give one. She responded by thanking Gerard and Lindsey for their generosity and their trust, platitudes that sounded familiar to Frank's ears because he was still saying them even now, after a year of living on the island.

He sighed, quite suddenly exhausted. "We should get home," he murmured. It took him a moment to realize that Jamia hadn't resisted the word home, and an even longer moment to recognize how true the word felt on his lips. He touched Jamia's elbow.

Gerard stood up quickly, nearly dislodging Lindsey from her perch, and held out his hand to Frank. "Don't feel you have to leave," he said, pulling Frank to his feet. "We have more than enough bedrooms, if you'd like to stay the night."

"Yes!" Lindsey agreed, rather enthusiastically. "It's a much farther walk for you and Jamia than it is for Bob, and it's already so dark outside. Just stay for tonight, and go home in the daylight tomorrow."

"No, it's not an inconven—"

"Frank, stop," Gerard cut him off, smiling. "Stay the night, I insist. I don't want you two getting lost or hurt in the dead of night like this. It's really no trouble."

Jamia looked agreeable, so Frank pulled out a smile and nodded. He was grateful, really; he just wanted to curl up with Jamia pressed against him, warm under a blanket. He needed time to both think and clear his head. Gerard led them up to two of the guest rooms, right across the hall from each other, and Lindsey pulled Jamia aside, murmuring about clothes that would fit her.

"I want her to stay," Gerard confided, once the women were out of earshot. "I know you do, too."

Frank shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what's going to happen."

Gerard rested his hand on Frank's bicep, and after a moment he squeezed comfortingly. Lindsey and Jamia's voices grew louder as they approached, and Gerard whispered, "Sleep well, Frank."

After Jamia changed into a borrowed nightdress, Frank slipped into her room and sat down on her bed. She was already reclining back against the pillows, and Frank tucked the blanket up around her.

"Gerard's serious about you tutoring his daughter," he said quietly.

"I thought so," she replied.

"You don't have to decide right away," he added, even though he was already driving himself crazy waiting for her answer.

"I'll certainly think about it," Jamia murmured. She touched his hand. "Sleep well, Frankie."

Frank leaned over her and brushed a kiss into her hairline before leaving the room.

Frank's bedroom was just across the hall from Jamia's; he padded over the thin rug and threw himself onto the bed. He didn't even know what he was feeling, the emotions were too turbulent, too many to sort out in his head. Frank rolled onto his back and stared up at the blank ceiling.

He tried every trick he knew for putting himself to sleep. There were no stars to count, so he counted specks on the ceiling, cracks in the wood panels of the furniture. What felt like hours later, he was still awake. He finally stumbled to his feet and left the bedroom.

There was no sound coming from Jamia's room, and Frank lingered for several minutes to make sure. He barely made out the whisper of her breathing, though, so he continued on down the hall, trying to remember the layout of the house in the dead of night.

He wandered tiredly from room to room, trailing his fingers over the edges of the furniture, sidestepping the narrow shafts of moonlight from the windows. He eventually found a room with a lamp still burning. He approached the door cautiously and peered in before entering.

"Frank!" Gerard said in surprise, though he kept his voice low. They were probably far enough away from the women and little Bandit that they could speak freely, but something about the middle of the night demanded hushed tones.

Gerard was sitting in an armchair with a small notebook resting on his knee. In his right hand, he held a pen with bite marks all over the end. He tapped it distractedly against his opposite arm.

"I thought you went to bed," Frank said dumbly. Gerard gestured for him to sit down, so he did.

"Bandit had a nightmare. Of course, I was the one who couldn't get back to sleep, after," he explained wryly. "Dead of night is when most of my inspiration comes, anyway. It's not unusual for me. But I'm guessing it is for you?"

"I couldn't sleep," Frank sighed. "I don't know what it is."

"You can't hear the ocean from here," Gerard said softly.

Frank listened for a moment. The trees outside rustled in the faint wind, but Gerard was right, the sound of the ocean didn't reach the house, set back as it was into the forest.

"I can't imagine you've been far from the sea since you were a child," Gerard continued. "You were quiet, tonight. Are you okay?"

Frank shook his head. He couldn't lie to Gerard. "Yes and no," he said. "I'm sorry about tonight, I was just… overwhelmed. I didn't know what to say."

"Understandable. Especially with Jamia here with you, yes?"

Frank caught Gerard's eye. He looked like he already knew the answer, like he'd read Frank's mind and deciphered all the clues, and was waiting for Frank to catch up.

"I love her," Frank blurted out.

Gerard smiled faintly. Frank could suddenly see the exhaustion around his eyes, and it shocked him. Gerard was so vibrant at dinner; he'd always been bright and cheerful and happy, ever since Frank had met him. It took a moment for Frank to wrap his head around this new facet of Gerard.

"It tears you up, doesn't it?" Gerard asked knowingly. "I know you love her. I can see the look on your face when you're with her. It shines out of you like you can't even help it."

"Yes," Frank breathed. "I don't know what to do."

"She should stay here, with you. She belongs here. She's good for you."

"I can't tell her that," Frank protested weakly. "She's got a life, ambitions that I never had. She doesn't want to stay here."

Gerard leaned forward, putting aside his pen and paper and resting his elbows on his knees. "You say that as if you mean she doesn't want _you_ , Frank."

Frank didn't know how to answer that. Was Gerard implying that Jamia did want him? Frank teethed at the inside of his lip, considering. "Maybe I should be more like her," he whispered. "Maybe I should want to leave, too."

"But you don't," Gerard said, like he knew the answer. He was right, in any case. Gerard sighed and said, "You have to do what's best for you."

"I don't know what that is. But I do want to stay."

"I hope she stays too, at least for your sake," Gerard continued. "I don't want to see her break your heart before she even knows you gave it to her."

Frank nodded and mirrored Gerard's position, leaning in close. "Are you okay, Gerard?"

Gerard's smile grew into a full grin. "Yeah, Frankie. Just tired. I'm used to it. You should go to bed, though. Can you find your way back?"

Frank glanced at the door and nodded, rising up from his chair. "Goodnight, Gerard."

"Goodnight," Gerard mumbled in reply. Frank slowly turned to leave, and at the last second, Gerard called his name. He turned back, questioning, and Gerard said, "Open your window. Imagine the trees are the ocean against the shore."

Frank gave Gerard a small, quiet smile and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

***

The next morning, Frank woke uncharacteristically early. He wandered through the house again and found Gerard in one of the studies, scratching away at a paper. Frank couldn't tell, from his distance, if Gerard was drawing or writing, but he was obviously deep into his head, so Frank didn't disturb him.

Instead, he went out the back door of the house and followed the path down to the cove. As he broke through the barrier of trees, the sound of the ocean hit him all at once and he breathed in deeply, drinking in the smell of the salt air.

The skies were grey and the sun was slowly rising over the opposite side of the island. Frank settled down on the beach of the cove and watched the water, letting his mind clear and his thoughts drift.

A long while later, once the sun had fully risen, Frank heard Jamia's footsteps in the pebbly sand, but he didn't turn to look. She sat down beside him, her skirt billowing into Frank's lap in the wind. She must have borrowed some of Lindsey's clothes, Frank realized, tilting his head to take in the new look. Jamia's hair whipped around her face and tickled Frank's cheek until, frustrated, she grabbed it and tied it at the back of her neck with one of her bootlaces. Frank gave her a smile and turned his attention back to the ocean. Jamia didn't speak, and they sat together in comfortable silence for several minutes.

After a particularly strong wave crashed onto the beach, Jamia turned to him and said, "You miss it, don't you?"

Frank hesitated before replying, considering his answer. He didn't miss the food rationing, the unrepentant storms, the close quarters of a ship, but yes, he missed being out there. He missed the way the ship rocked under his feet, and the sound the water made when it slapped at the hull. He missed the camaraderie of his crew. Frank said as much to Jamia.

"Don't stay here on my account," she began. "You should go after that life, if you love it so much." Frank interrupted with a slight shake of his head.

"Now that I know what it's like, on land," he said, "I don't really want to go back. I'd never stayed still for any extended length of time before now. I just can't see myself going back out there. At least, not without…"

"If you say without me, I'll hit you," Jamia cut in playfully.

Frank laughed. "Fine, I won't say it. But it's true. Now I know what real life is like, life that's not just a bunch of men falling over each other in the middle of the ocean. I don't want to give that up quite yet."

Jamia was quiet for a moment. "So, you're staying?"

Frank gently nudged her side with his elbow. "Yeah, I'm staying." She didn't really react, so Frank nudged her again. "What about you, do you miss being away from here?"

She didn't reply. Frank had a sudden flare of worry and fear in his gut; he knew she wasn't as sentimental as he was, and she didn't have a real connection to the island—or Frank. At least not yet. She was more adventurous than he, even though he'd traveled the world on his ship.

But he didn't want to affect her decision, whether she wanted to stay or go. It had to be her choice.

Finally, she turned to face him. Her expression was soft. "I'm not going anywhere yet."

It wasn't the definite answer that Frank craved, but it was enough. He beamed helplessly at her, and her smile slowly grew to match.

***

They made it back to Frank's house before the rain hit that evening, but barely. Frank shuffled around and started making a fire, then made up his mat on the floor with another blanket. Jamia sat down on the bed and watched him silently. The rain was soft on the roof and against the window, but it was loud enough to fill the room.

Jamia finally reached out and tapped Frank on the shoulder as he was sitting down. He turned around to look at her.

"Do you want…" she trailed off uncertainly.

Frank chose not to tell her that he wasn't actually scared. The rain wasn't his problem, it was the thunder and the lightning, the violence of storms. Instead, he stood up and joined her on the bed, whispering a soft "Thank you."

Jamia pulled back the blankets and let Frank slide in first to lie against the wall, then got up to prod at the fire and blow out the flame in the lamp. There was still a small amount of grey light filtering in through the window, and it caught the white fabric of Jamia's nightgown and made it glow in the low light. Frank caught himself staring and cleared his throat awkwardly, rolling to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling instead.

He felt Jamia lie down beside him, felt her breath on the side of his neck. "This is better, isn't it?" she whispered. Frank turned his head and felt the air leave his lungs as if he'd been swallowed by a wave.

Jamia's face was so close to his own. Flickering firelight crept over her cheek and illuminated her pale features, the curve of her lips. Frank felt his body twist towards her of its own accord, felt her hand high on his waist to hold him there. He couldn't breathe and he couldn't look away.

"What's wrong?" she asked. She moved her hand slowly up and down Frank's side in a gesture he was sure was meant to be comforting.

He opened his mouth to answer, but of course he couldn't find the words. He swallowed and cleared his throat again. "I just…"

Jamia shifted closer to him and Frank finally closed his eyes. Her feet touched his own, her arm slipped around behind his back. Frank licked his lips and opened his mouth. "I love you," he breathed.

"Frankie—"

Frank couldn't hold it in any longer. It was as if a dam had broken. "I love you, Jamia. I really do. I love you so much, and I want you to stay with me and never leave, because I can't imagine living without you anymore."

He opened his eyes. Her expression was calm and neutral, though she was smiling softly. She stroked his back. He searched her eyes for an answer and couldn't find one.

"Frankie," she finally replied, "I want to stay with you. I want to make a life on this island and teach that little girl how to read and write. I'm staying."

Frank breathed a quick sigh of relief and chose to focus on the positive of her answer. She was staying with him; she wasn't angry at him. They could live together and be happy, like Gerard and Lindsey.

"I love you," he said again, because he just couldn't help himself. It was like releasing a sail into the wind; once it was free from the ties, it caught the breeze and pulled him forward.

Jamia leaned up and kissed Frank's forehead. He closed his eyes again and concentrated on the warm, soft press of her lips on his skin. She rubbed his back again.

"I'm not leaving you," she whispered. "Try and sleep."

Curling up against Jamia's body, Frank found sleep easily.

***

Michael Way returned to the island a few weeks later, to visit his niece. Frank took Jamia to the Ways' house with the intention of only introducing her to Michael, but in the end, they got caught up in conversation and invited to stay for lunch.

They made a picnic of sandwiches and the fresh fruit Michael had brought from the mainland, and they ate outside, on the beach of the cove. Bandit quickly lost interest in food and dragged Gerard away to build a sandcastle, leaving Lindsey, Michael, Frank, and Jamia to their own devices.

Frank tried to act normally around Jamia in front of the Ways. He tried not to stare at her eyelashes and touch her hair when it blew over her shoulder. He tried not to lean against her when she rested her hand on his back. He didn't think he was succeeding very well.

After lunch, Michael stood up and announced he was going for a walk around the cove. He reached down to pull Frank to his feet, because apparently he wanted company. Michael led Frank away from their picnic blanket. They walked along the waterline until they were out of earshot, and then Michael said, "My brother told me about this woman."

"Jamia?"

"Yes. He said you're in love with her," Michael continued. "You are, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Frank admitted quietly. "I do love her."

Michael gave him a wry smile. "You're not subtle, Frank."

"I told her I did," Frank replied, shaking his head. "It's not a secret anymore. It just isn't anything that can…"

"She loves you too, Frank," Michael said, in a tone that suggested he thought Frank was being deliberately obtuse. "It's just as obvious."

"She hasn't—"

"It's _obvious_ ," Michael repeated. "I was just going to ask why you hadn't married her yet, but apparently I underestimated—"

"She loves me?" Frank interrupted quickly. He stopped in his tracks and after a few seconds, Michael stopped as well and turned around to face him. "Are you sure?"

"I am. I thought you knew."

Frank shook his head again. "I'm not sure. It's not that I don't believe you, it's just that… Well, she hasn't said anything."

Michael smiled, then reached out and patted Frank's arm. "Good luck to you, then."

They continued walking in comfortable silence, Michael leading the way and Frank staring down at his feet, lost in thought. He wanted to believe Michael, and he felt in his heart that it was true, but Frank couldn't trust his heart, not when he was so lost for Jamia. He didn't want to get his hopes up, and he didn't want to ruin whatever he and Jamia had together by asking.

***

It quickly became habit for Frank to spend the night in bed with Jamia. Her presence beside him helped him sleep calmly, and beyond that, it was a comfort and a pleasure to sleep with her. He liked falling asleep with her arm around his waist, and he liked opening his eyes to see her face in the morning.

He usually woke up first and crawled out of bed to make breakfast for both of them, and it was a normal, ordinary morning when he slipped out of bed to do just that. He sat at the kitchen table while waiting for the kettle to boil, watching Jamia sleep. He felt a little intrusive doing so, but he just couldn't help himself. She looked so peaceful. Beautiful.

He stood up and poured two mugs of tea. When he turned around, Jamia's eyes were open. He smiled and said, "Good morning."

She answered with, "I love you, Frank."

Frank nearly dropped his mug in surprise. He couldn't keep the shock from his face; it made Jamia laugh, though. She held out her hand to him.

"I love you," she said again.

Frank left the tea on the table and went over to the bed in three strides, taking her hand in both of his as he sank to his knees. He wanted to tell her he loved her; he wanted to say thank you. He couldn't say anything. She quite literally took his breath away.

She opened her mouth to speak again but Frank leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, cutting off any explanation she may have had. The kiss was gentle, chaste, but Frank didn't feel the need to push for more. It lasted forever in his mind, the softness of her lips and the bump of their noses together as they turned their heads.

He clung tightly to her hand, afraid to let go. She was holding his hand just as hard. Her other hand came up to firmly wrap around the back of Frank's neck, pulling him close.

Frank was perfectly content to spend the rest of the day—the rest of all his days—kneeling beside the bed and kissing Jamia. He didn't even want to stop for air.

***

It was nearly a week later when the storm crept over the island. Frank had been watching the horizon all day, watching the dark clouds approach from a long way off. The wind picked up to a gale and the waves started slamming into the jetty rocks at full force.

The house was sturdy, Frank was confident of that. He closed and locked the doors and windows, barricading himself and Jamia inside. Jamia took care of the fire, bringing in several logs to keep dry.

Frank stared out the window. He didn't move, he didn't even shake or shiver when the glass rattled, but in his head he wasn't staying calm at all. There was a haze of fear blanketing everything he saw.

The rain started in the early evening. Clouds blocked out any remaining sunlight and gave the island an early nightfall. Frank flinched back from the window when the rain picked up from a steady downpour to a deafening roar. It battered the windows and the rooftop; Frank wasn't sure his house would hold through this.

His ship didn't hold, and it had been built for rough seas.

Jamia slid her hand over Frank's shoulder and squeezed. In Frank's mind, he saw Cortez in front of him, grabbing his shoulder and the front of his shirt before a strong wave wrenched them apart. Frank put his hand over Jamia's and held on tightly.

"Come to bed, Frank," she said loudly, to be heard over the rain. "You don't need to watch this."

Frank blinked a few times to clear his vision, then stood up to follow Jamia to the bed. She pushed him down first, holding him firmly with her hand on his chest, and then slid in beside him, pulling the blanket all the way up to their chins.

Frank's gaze drifted to the window over Jamia's shoulder. She put her hand on his cheek and forced him to look away. He met her eyes and she shook her head calmly.

He took a few deep breaths to try and calm himself down, and he thought it was working, even though his heart still pounded in his chest.

"It's just rain," she murmured. She was wrong; it wasn't just rain, it was wind and lightning and thunder and strong waves splashing up on the beach. Frank started to shake his head.

Jamia stopped him with a kiss. His eyes fell closed of their own accord as he opened his mouth and let her in. Her hand on his cheek relaxed slightly and Frank didn't even think about breaking from her hold. He rolled onto his back and Jamia rolled with him, throwing one hand down beside Frank's head to prop herself up.

Frank reached up and stroked her hair away from their faces, slid his hands up over the back of her neck and down her shoulders. His fingers dipped beneath the neckline of her nightgown and she didn't protest.

Jamia lifted one leg over him and sat up on her knees, straddling his thighs. Her dark hair framed her face as she looked down at him. Frank kept his hands resting on her shoulders.

"Frankie," she whispered, reaching down to touch his cheek. "You don't have to be afraid anymore."

Frank sighed and let his arms fall to the bed. His knuckles brushed Jamia's bare knee where the nightgown rode up around her thighs. Frank's hand twitched in an automatic response.

"Frank, I love you," Jamia said softly.

Frank extended his fingers and cupped her knee in his palm, watching her face for any sign of protest. She smiled at him, and Frank felt his own expression reflecting hers. He couldn't even hear the rain anymore. He slid his hand slowly up beneath her dress, palm flat against her skin.

Jamia leaned down again and captured his lips in a fierce kiss. A flash lit up Frank's closed eyelids but it was gone in less than a second; he didn't have time to think about it. He focused instead on Jamia's nimble hands wandering over his bare chest. As her hands slipped lower, down to the waistband of his shorts, Frank squeezed his eyes shut tight and dug his fingers into her smooth, soft flesh.

She didn't stop kissing him, didn't shy away from his tongue or the low noises he made in the back of his throat. She nipped at his lips instead, grazing her teeth across the places where Frank bit himself in worry.

When she pushed her hands beneath Frank's waistband, she and Frank both let out a low moan and neither of them tried to slow down or stop. Frank moved his hands to her back, lifting the soft fabric of her nightgown up over himself.

It was a shock to Frank when she touched him. She didn't hesitate, and Frank gasped in surprise, unable to restrain himself from bucking up against her. Jamia wasted no time, though; she stroked his length a few times and then shifted up, finally breaking the kiss to gasp, "I love you."

Frank's eyes flew open and he focused on her face. Her pale cheeks were flushed red and her eyes were closed, and Frank moved one hand to push her hair behind her ear.

"I don't want to lose you," he heard himself say. "I don't ever want to lose you."

Jamia opened her eyes and stared right at Frank, her lips curving into a soft smile. "You won't."

Frank stared up at her until she positioned herself and rocked her body down against him. She threw her head back with a sharp gasp and Frank couldn't watch anymore, he was overcome by the feel of her tight around him. He clung to her arm and moaned her name loudly, unable to censor himself.

Jamia kept their movement steady; Frank didn't have the mental capacity for anything other than pure sensation. It was over far too quickly in Frank's mind, though at the same time it seemed to last forever. Jamia bent over him and kissed him again, with less finesse this time. It was more of a wet slide of their lips against each other, and Frank gasped her name out into the air between them.

Frank didn't open his eyes for several minutes after. Jamia slid off of him and to the side, pillowing her chin on Frank's chest so she could look up and meet his gaze. Frank wrapped his arms around her back and held her close and tight, and then he watched as her eyelids drooped and she slipped into an easy sleep.

The sound of the pounding rain and the guttural noise of thunder came back to him then, but Frank didn't pay it much attention. He dragged his fingertip across Jamia's cheek, brushing aside a stray lock of hair. He could feel sleep creeping up on him and he welcomed it, closing his eyes willingly against a bright flash of lightning.

Jamia's breath was hot and damp on his skin. Frank exhaled slowly, comforted by the weight of her lying on him, and slept.

 _fin_.


End file.
